UC-NRLF 


PICTURES 

OF  THE 

v    FLOATING  WORLD 


.F. 


THE 


Books  by  AMY  LOWELL 

PUBLISHED  BY 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Poetry 
WHAT'S  O'CLOCK 

LEGENDS 

PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 
CAN  GRANDE'S  CASTLE 
MEN,  WOMEN  AND  GHOSTS 
SWORD  BLADES  AND  POPPY  SEED 
A  DOME  OF  MANY-COLOURED  GLASS 
A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

(IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  FLORENCE  ATSCOUGH) 
FIR-FLOWER   TABLETS:    POEMS    TRANSLATED 
FROM  THE  CHINESE 

Prose 

TENDENCIES  IN  MODERN  AMERICAN  POETRY 

six  FRENCH  POETS:  STUDIES  IN  CONTEMPO 
RARY  LITERATURE 
JOHN  KEATS 


PICTURES 

OF  THE 

FLOATING   WORLD 

BY 

AMY  LOWELL 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(€I;e  fttoerg'ibe  presrf  Cambri&Qe 


MORRISON  MEMORIAL  LIBRARY 

COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY  AMY  LOWELL 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

PUBLISHED   SEPTEMBER,   7919 
REPRINTED   NOVEMBER,   DECEMBER,   1919 

JUNE,    1920;   AUGUST,   1922 
MAY,   1924,   DECEMBER,   1925 


CAMBRIDGE  -   MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


3523 

On  Ps 


"In  <fo?  name  of  J&ese  States  and  in  your  and  my  name, 

the  Past, 
And  in  the  name  of  these  States  and  in  your  and  my 

name,  the  Present  time" 

Walt  Whitman.     "  WITH  ANTECEDENTS." 


683050 


FOREWORD 

THE  march  of  peoples  is  always  toward  the 
West,  wherefore,  the  earth  being  round,  in  time 
the  West  must  be  East  again.  A  startling 
paradox,  but  one  which  accounts  for  the  great 
interest  and  inspiration  that  both  poets  and 
painters  are  discovering  in  Oriental  art.  The 
first  part  of  this  book  represents  some  of  the 
charm  I  have  found  in  delving  into  Chinese  and 
Japanese  poetry.  It  should  be  understood, 
however,  that  these  poems,  written  in  a  quasi- 
Oriental  idiom,  are  not  translations  except  in  a 
very  few  instances  all  of  which  have  been  duly 
acknowledged  in  the  text. 

In  the  Japanese  "Lacquer  Prints,"  the  hokku 

pattern  has  been  more  closely  followed  than  has 

any  corresponding  Chinese  form  in  the   "Chi- 

noiseries";   but,  even   here,  I   have   made   no 

vii 


CONTENTS 

LACQUER  PRINTS: 

STREETS      3 

BY  MESSENGER 4 

CIRCUMSTANCE 4 

ANGLES 5 

VICARIOUS 5 

NEAR  KIOTO 6 

DESOLATION 6 

i 

YOSHIWARA  LAMENT 6 

SUNSHINE 6 

ILLUSION 7 

A  YEAR  PASSES 7 

A  LOVER 8 

To  A  HUSBAND 8 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  WIFE 8 

FROM  CHINA 8 

THE  POND 9 

AUTUMN 9 

\ 

xi 


i  CONTENTS 

EPHEMERA  ....  -tn 

DOCUMENT  .....  IQ 

THE  EMPEROB'S  GARDEN   ....  n 

,  ONE  OF  THE  "HUNDRED  VIEWS   OF  FUJI"  BY 

HOKUSAI 11 

DISILLUSION        ....  12 

PAPER  FISHES     .....  12 

MEDITATION  i  Q 

'               •               •               •  *            J.O 

THE  CAMELLIA  TREE  OF  MATSUE     ...      13 

SUPERSTITION 15 

THE  RETURN 15 

A  LADY  TO  HER  LOVER     ...  jg 

NUANCE -jg 

AUTUMN  HAZE    .....  16 

PEACE         ••....  16 

IN  TIME  OF  WAR 17 

NUIT  BLANCHE 17 

SPRING  DAWN 17 

POETRY o  lg 

FROM  A  WINDOW        .....  18 

AGAIN  THE  NEW  YEAR  FESTIVAL  18 


CONTENTS  X 

TIME 19 

LEGEND •        .19 

PILGRIMS  ASCENDING  FUJI-YAMA        ...  19 

THE  KAGOES  OF  A  RETURNING  TRAVELLER      .  20 

A  STREET 20 

OUTSIDE  A  GATE 20 

ROAD  TO  THE  YOSHIWARA          .        .        .        .21 

Ox  STREET.  TAKANAWA 21 

A  DAIMIO'S  OIRAN [21 

PASSING  THE  BAMBOO  FENCE     ....  22 

FROSTY  EVENING 22 

AN  ARTIST 22 

A  BURNT  OFFERING 23 

DAYBREAK.  YOSHIWARA 23 

TEMPLE  CEREMONY 23 

Two  PORTERS  RETURNING  ALONG  A  COUNTRY 

ROAD 24 

STORM  BY  THE  SEASHORE 24 

THE  EXILED  EMPEROR 25 

LETTER  WRITTEN  FROM  PRISON  BY  Two  POLIT 
ICAL  OFFENDERS 25 


XIV  CONTENTS 

MOON  HAZE 25 

PROPORTION        .  26 

CONSTANCY          .....  26 

CHINOISERIES: 

REFLECTIONS       ....  27 

FALLING  SNOW <gg 

HOAR-FROST 28 

GOLD-LEAF  SCREEN 29 

A  POET'S  WIFE 30 

SPRING  LONGING 3j 

Li  T'AI  Po 32 

PLANES  OF  PERSONALITY 

TWO   SPEAK   TOGETHER 

VERNAL  EQUINOX 39 

THE  LETTER 40 

MISE  EN  SCENE 42 

VENUS  TRANSIENS 43 

MADONNA  OF  THE  EVENING  FLOWERS        ...      45 

BRIGHT  SUNLIGHT 47 


CONTENTS  XV 

OMBRE  CHINOISE 48 

JULY  MIDNIGHT 49 

WHEAT-IN-THE-EAR 50 

THE  WEATHER-COCK  POINTS  SOUTH  .        .        .        .51 

THE  ARTIST 53 

THE  GARDEN  BY  MOONLIGHT 54 

INTERLUDE 56 

BULLION 58 

THE  WHEEL  OF  THE  SUN 59 

A  SHOWER 61 

SUMMER  RAIN 62 

APRIL 63 

Cog  D'OR 64 

THE  CHARM 66 

AFTER  A  STORM 67 

OPAL 69 

WAKEFULNESS 70 

ORANGE  OF  MIDSUMMER 71 

SHORE  GRASS 73 

AUTUMNAL  EQUINOX   .        .        .        .        .        .        .74 

THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 75 


XVI  CONTENTS 


NERVES       

<jr 

LEFT  BEHIND 

AUTUMN 

THE  SIXTEENTH  FLOOR 

STRAIN 

HAUNTED     

GROTESQUE 

SNOW  IN  APRIL 

A  SPRIG  OF  ROSEMARY 

MALADIE  DE  L'APRES-MIDI         .... 

NOVEMBER 

NOSTALGIA 

PREPARATION 

A  DECADE 

PENUMBRA  

FRIMAIRE     ........ 

EYES,   AND   EARS,   AND   WALKING 

SOLITAIRE 

THE  BACK  BAY  FENS 

FREE  FANTASIA  ON  JAPANESE  THEMES 


CONTENTS  XVII 

AT  THE  BOOKSELLER'S 109 

VIOLIN  SONATA  BY  VINCENT  D'!NDY  .        .        .        .111 

WINTER'S  TURNING 113 

EUCHARIS  AMAZONICA 115 

THE  Two  RAINS 117 

GOOD  GRACIOUS! 118 

TREES 119 

DAWN  ADVENTURE 120 

THE  CORNER  OF  NIGHT  AND  MORNING      .        .        .  121 

BEECH,  PINE,  AND  SUNLIGHT      .....  122 

PLANNING  THE  GARDEN 124 

IMPRESSIONIST  PICTURE  OF  A  GARDEN       .        .        .  128 

A  BATHER 130 

DOG-DAYS 133 

AUGUST  (LATE  AFTERNOON) 134 

HILLY  COUNTRY 135 

TREES  IN  WINTER 136 

SEA  COAL 138 

DOLPHINS  IN  BLUE  WATER 139 

MOTOR  LIGHTS  ON  A  HILL  ROAD       .        .        .        .141 


xviii  CONTENTS 

AS   TOWARD   ONE?S   SELF 

IN  A  TIME  OF  DEARTH 147 

ALIENS 152 

MIDDLE  AGE 153 

LA  VIE  DE  BOHEME 154 

FLAME  APPLES 157 

THE  TRAVELLING  BEAR 158 

MERCHANDISE 160 

THE  POEM 162 

THE  PEDDLER  OF  FLOWERS 164 

BALLS 166 

THE  FANATIC 167 

FIREWORKS 169 

TRADES 171 

GENERATIONS 173 

ENTENTE  CORDIALE 174 

CASTLES  IN  SPAIN 175 

PLUMMETS   TO   CIRCUMSTANCE 

ELY  CATHEDRAL 179 

WILLIAM  BLAKE  .                ......  181 


CONTENTS  XIX 

i 

AN  INCIDENT       ........  182 

PEACH-COLOUR  TO  A  SOAP-BUBBLE    ....  184 

PYROTECHNICS 185 

THE  BOOKSHOP 187 

GARGOYLES .   .  189 

To  WINKY 193 

CHOPIN 197 

APPULDURCOMBE  PARK 201 

THE  BROKEN  FOUNTAIN 207 

THE  DUSTY  HOUR-GLASS 209 

THE  FLUTE 211 

FLOTSAM 213 

LITTLE  IVORY  FIGURES  PULLED  WITH  STRING    .        .  215 

ON  THE  MANTELPIECE 217 

AS  TOWARD   WAR 

MlSERICORDIA 221 

DREAMS  IN  WAR  TIME 222 

SPECTACLES  .  227 

IN  THE  STADIUM 229 

AFTER  WRITING  "THE  BRONZE  HORSES"  .  ,  232 


XX  CONTENTS 

THE  FORT 235 

CAMOUFLAGED  TROOP-SHIP 239 

SEPTEMBER.  1918 244 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  PARADE       ....  246 

AS  TOWARD    IMMORTALITY 
ON  A  CERTAIN  CRITIC 253 

The  author  wishes  to  thank  the  editors  of  the  following  magazines  and 
newspapers  for  permission  to  reprint  such  of  these  poems  as  have  already 
appeared  in  their  pages:  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  The  Century,  Scribner's, 
Harper's,  The  North  American  Review,  The  Yale  Review,  The  Bookman, 
The  Seven  Arts,  The  New  Republic,  Poetry,  The  Dial,  Reedy's  Mirror, 
The  Touchstone,  The  Smart  Set,  The  Independent,  The  Craftsman,  Good 
Housekeeping,  House  and  Garden,  Vanity  Fair,  The  Little  Review,  Others, 
The  Poetry  Journal,  The  Masses,  La  Revista  de  Indias,  The  Lyric,  Youth, 
The  Trimmed  Lamp,  The  New  York  Tribune,  The  New  YorK  Sun,  Poetry 
and  Drama,  London,  The  Egoist,  London,  also  Some  Imagist  Poets,  Some 
Imaglst  Poets  —  1916,  and  Some  Imagist  Poets^ — 1917,  published  by 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


LACQUER  PRINTS 

AND 

CHINOISERIES 


LACQUER  PRINTS 

STREETS 

(Adapted  from  the  poet  Yakura  Sanjin,  1769) 
As  I  wandered  through  the  eight  hundred  and  eight 

streets  of  the  city, 
I  saw  nothing  so  beautiful 
As  the  Women  of  the  Green  Houses, 
With  their  girdles  of  spun  gold, 
And  their  long-sleeved  dresses, 
Coloured  like  the  graining  of  wood. 
As  they  walk, 

The  hems  of  their  outer  garments  flutter  open, 
And  the  blood-red  linings  glow  like  sharp-toothed 

maple  leaves 
In  Autumn. 


4  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

BY  MESSENGER 
ONE  night 

When  there  was  a  clear  moon, 
I  sat  down 
To  write  a  poem 
About  maple-trees. 
But  the  dazzle  of  moonlight 
In  the  ink 
Blinded  me, 
And  I  could  only  write 
What  I  remembered. 
Therefore,  on  the  wrapping  of  my  poem 
I  have  inscribed  your  name. 

CIRCUMSTANCE 
UPON  the  maple  leaves 
The  dew  shines  red, 
But  on  the  lotus  blossom 
It  has  the  pale  transparence  of  tears. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


ANGLES 

THE  rain  is  dark  against  the  white  sky, 
Or  white  against  the  foliage  of  eucalyptus-trees. 
But,  in  the  cistern,  it  is  a  sheet  of  mauve  and  amber, 
Because  of  the  chrysanthemums 
Heaped  about  its  edge. 


VICARIOUS 

WHEN  I  stand  under  the  willow-tree 
Above  the  river, 

In  my  straw-coloured  silken  garment 
Embroidered  with  purple  chrysanthemums, 
It  is  not  at  the  bright  water 
That  I  am  gazing, 
But  at  your  portrait, 
Which  I  have  caused  to  be  painted 
On  my  fan. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

NEAR  KIOTO 

As  I  crossed  over  the  bridge  of  Ariwarano  Narikira, 
I  saw  that  the  waters  were  purple 
With  the  floating  leaves  of  maples. 

DESOLATION 

UNDER  the  plum-blossoms  are  nightingales ; 
But  the  sea  is  hidden  in  an  egg-white  mist, 
And  they  are  silent. 

YOSHIWARA  LAMENT 
GOLDEN  peacocks 
Under  blossoming  cherry-trees, 
But  on  all  the  wide  sea 
There  is  no  boat. 

SUNSHINE 

THE  pool  is  edged  with  the  blade-like  leaves  of  irises. 
If  I  throw  a  stone  into  the  placid  water, 


PICTURES   OF    THE    FLOATING    WORLD 

It  suddenly  stiffens 
Into  rings  and  rings 
Of  sharp  gold  wire. 


ILLUSION 

WALKING  beside  the  tree-peonies, 
I  saw  a  beetle 

Whose  wings  were  of  black  lacquer  spotted  with  milk. 
I  would  have  caught  it, 
But  it  ran  from  me  swiftly 
And  hid  under  the  stone  lotus 
Which  supports  the  statue  of  Buddha. 


A  YEAR  PASSES 

BEYOND  the  porcelain  fence  of  the  pleasure  garden, 
I  hear  the  frogs  in  the  blue-green  rice-fields ; 
But  the  sword-shaped  moon 
Has  cut  my  heart  in  two. 


8  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

A   LOVER 

IF  I  could  catch  the  green  lantern  of  the  firefly 
I  could  see  to  write  you  a  letter. 

To  A  HUSBAND 

BRIGHTER  than  fireflies  upon  the  Uji  River 
Are  your  words  in  the  dark,  Beloved. 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  WIFE 
WHEN  I  am  alone, 
The  wind  in  the  pine-trees 
Is  like  the  shuffling  of  waves 
Upon  the  wooden  sides  of  a  boat. 

FROM  CHINA 
I  THOUGHT :  — 
The  moon, 
Shining  upon  the  many  steps  of  the  palace  before  me, 


PICTURES   OF   THE    FLOATING   WORLD 

Shines  also  upon  the  chequered  rice-fields 
Of  my  native  land. 
And  my  tears  fell 
Like  white  rice  grains 
At  my  feet. 


THE  POND 
COLD,  wet  leaves 
Floating  on  moss-coloured  water, 
And  the  croaking  of  frogs  — 
Cracked  bell-notes  in  the  twilight. 


AUTUMN 

ALL  day  I  have  watched  the  purple  vine  leaves 
Fall  into  the  water. 

And  now  in  the  moonlight  they  still  fall, 
But  each  leaf  is  fringed  with  silver. 


10  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

EPHEMERA 

SILVER-GREEN  lanterns  tossing  among  windy  branches : 
So  an  old  man  thinks 
Of  the  loves  of  his  youth. 

DOCUMENT 

THE  great  painter,  Hokusai, 
In  his  old  age, 
Wrote  these  words : 
"Profiting  by  a  beautiful  Spring  day, 
In  this  year  of  tranquillity, 
To  warm  myself  in  the  sun, 
I  received  a  visit  from  my  publisher 
Who  asked  me  to  do  something  for  him. 
Then  I  reflected  that  one  should  not  forget  the 

glory  of  arms, 

Above  all  when  one  was  living  in  peace ; 
And  in  spite  of  my  age, 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  11 

Which  is  more  than  seventy  years, 

I  have  found  courage  to  draw  those  ancient  heroes 

Who  have  been  the  models  of  glory." 

THE  EMPEROR'S  GARDEN 
ONCE,  hi  the  sultry  heats  of  Midsummer, 
An  Emperor  caused  the  miniature  mountains  in  his 

garden 

To  be  covered  with  white  silk, 
That  so  crowned 
They  might  cool  his  eyes  \ 
With  the  sparkle  of  snow. 

ONE  OF  THE  "HUNDRED  VIEWS  OF  FUJI"  BY  HOKUSAI 

BEING  thirsty, 

I  filled  a  cup  with  water, 

And,  behold !    Fuji-yama  lay  upon  the  water 

Like  a  dropped  leaf ! 


12  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

DISILLUSION 
A  SCHOLAR, 

Weary  of  erecting  the  fragile  towers  of  words, 
Went  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Asama-yama. 
And  seeing  the  force  of  the  fire 
Spouting  from  this  mighty  mountain, 
Hurled  himself  into  its  crater 
And  perished. 


PAPER  FISHES 
THE  paper  carp, 

At  the  end  of  its  long  bamboo  pole, 
Takes  the  wind  into  its  mouth 
And  emits  it  at  its  tail. 
So  is  man, 
Forever  swallowing  the  wind. 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  13 

MEDITATION 
A  WISE  man, 

Watching  the  stars  pass  across  the  sky, 
Remarked : 
In  the  upper  air  the  fireflies  move  more  slowly. 


THE  CAMELLIA  TREE  OF  MATSUE 
AT  Matsue, 

There  was  a  Camellia  Tree  of  great  beauty 
Whose  blossoms  were  white  as  honey  wax 
Splashed  and  streaked  with  the  pink  of  fair  coral. 
At  night, 

When  the  moon  rose  in  the  sky, 
The  Camellia  Tree  would  leave  its  place 
By  the  gateway, 

And  wander  up  and  down  the  garden, 
Trailing  its  roots  behind  it 


14  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Like  a  train  of  rustling  silk. 

The  people  in  the  house, 

Hearing  the  scrape  of  them  upon  the  gravel, 

Looked  out  into  the  garden 

And  saw  the  tree, 

With  its  flowers  erect  and  peering, 

Pressed  against  the  shoji. 

Many  nights  the  tree  walked  about  the  garden, 

Until  the  women  and  children 

Became  frightened, 

And  the  Master  of  the  house 

Ordered  that  it  be  cut  down. 

But  when  the  gardener  brought  his  axe 

And  struck  at  the  trunk  of  the  tree, 

There  spouted  forth  a  stream  of  dark  blood ; 

And  when  the  stump  was  torn  up, 

The  hole  quivered  like  an  open  wound. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  15 

SUPERSTITION 

I  HAVE  painted  a  picture  of  a  ghost 
Upon  my  kite, 
And  hung  it  on  a  tree. 
Later,  when  I  loose  the  string 
And  let  it  fly, 
The  people  will  cower 
And  hide  their  heads, 
For  fear  of  the  God 
Swimming  in  the  clouds. 

THE  RETURN 
COMING  up  from  my  boat 
In  haste  to  lighten  your  anxiety, 
I  saw,  reflected  in  the  circular  metal  mirror, 
The  face  and  hands  of  a  woman 
Arranging  her  hair. 


16  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

A  LADY  TO  HER  LOVER 
THE  white  snows  of  Winter 
Follow  the  falling  of  leaves ; 
Therefore 

I  have  had  your  portrait  cut 
In  snow-white  jade. 

NUANCE 

EVEN  the  iris  bends 
When  a  butterfly  lights  upon  it. 

AUTUMN  HAZE 

Is  it  a  dragonfly  or  a  maple  leaf 
That  settles  softly  down  upon  the  water  ? 

PEACE 

PERCHED  upon  the  muzzle  of  a  cannon 
A  yellow  butterfly  is  slowly  opening  and  shutting  its 
wings. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  17 

IN  TIME  OF  WAR 
ACROSS  the  newly-plastered  wall, 
The  darting  of  red  dragonflies 
Is  like  the  shooting 
Of  blood-tipped  arrows. 

NUIT  BLANCHE 

THE  chirping  of  crickets  in  the  night 
Is  intermittent, 
Like  the  twinkling  of  stars. 

SPRING  DAWN 
HE  wore  a  coat 

With  gold  and  red  maple  leaves, 
He  was  girt  with  the  two  swords, 
He  carried  a  peony  lantern. 
When  I  awoke, 

There  was  only  the  blue  shadow  of  the  plum-tree 
Upon  the  shoji. 


18  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


POETRY 

OVKK  the  shop  where  silk  is  sold 
Still  the  dragon  kites  are  flying. 


FROM  A  WINDOW 

YOUR  footfalls  on  the  drum  bridge  beside  my  house 
Are  like  the  pattering  drops  of  a  passing  shower, 
So  soon  are  they  gone. 


AGAIN  THE  NEW  YEAR  FESTIVAL 
I  HAVE  drunk  your  health 
In  the  red  -lacquer  wine  cups, 
But  the  wind-bells  on  the  bronze  lanterns 
In  my  garden 
Are  corroded  and  fallen. 


;•:    .       ..        .    Tin;  rr/jATi.v;   'W.HJj  19 


TIME 

LOOKING  at  myself  in  my  metal  mirror, 
I  saw,  faintly  outlined, 
The  figure  of  a  crane 

Engraved  upon  its  hack. 

LEGEND 

WHEN*  the  leaves  of  the  cassia-tree 
Turn  red  in  Autumn, 
Then  the  moon, 
In  which  it  grows, 
Shines  for  many  nights 
More  brightly. 

PILGRIMS  ASCENDING  FUJI-YAMA 
I  SHOULD  tremble  at  the  falling  showers  of  ashes 
Dislodged  by  my  feet, 
Did  I  not  know 


20  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING    WORLD 

That  at  night  they  fly  upward 

And  spread  themselves  once  more 

Upon  the  slopes  of  the  Honourable  Mountain. 

THE  KAGOES  OF  A  RETURNING  TRAVELLER 
DIAGONALLY  between  the  cryptomerias, 
What  I  took  for  the  flapping  of  wings 
Was  the  beating  feet  of  your  runners, 
O  my  Lord ! 

A  STREET 

UNDER  red  umbrellas  with  cream-white  centres, 
A  procession  of  Geisha  passes 
In  front  of  the  silk-shop  of  Matsuzaka-ya. 

OUTSIDE  A  GATE 

ON  the  floor  of  the  empty  palanquin 
The  plum-petals  constantly  increase. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  21 

ROAD   TO   THE   YOSHIWARA 

COMING  to  you  along  the  Nihon  Embankment, 
Suddenly  the  road  was  darkened 
By  a  flock  of  wild  geese 
Crossing  the  moon. 

Ox  STREET.  TAKANAWA 
WHAT  is  a  rainbow  ? 

Have  I  not  seen  its  colours  and  its  shape 
Duplicated  in  the  melon  slices 
Lying  beside  an  empty  cart  ? 

A  DAIMIO'S  OIRAN 
WHEN  I  hear  your  runners  shouting : 
"  Get  down !    Get  down ! " 
Then  I  dress  my  hair 
With  the  little  chrysanthemums. 


22  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


PASSING  THE  BAMBOO  FENCE 
WHAT  fell  upon  my  open  umbrella  — 
A  plum-blossom  ? 


FROSTY  EVENING 

IT  is  not  the  bright  light  in  your  window 
Which  dazzles  my  eyes ; 
It  is  the  dim  outline  of  your  shadow 
Moving  upon  the  shoji. 


AN  ARTIST 
THE  anchorite,  Kisen, 
Composed  a  thousand  poems 
And  threw  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  into  the 

river 
Finding  one  alone  worthy  of  preservation. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  23 

A  BURNT  OFFERING 
BECAUSE  there  was  no  wind, 
The  smoke  of  your  letters  hung  in  the  air 
For  a  long  time ; 
And  its  shape 

Was  the  shape  of  your  face, 
My  Beloved. 

DAYBREAK.    YOSHIWARA 
DRAW  your  hoods  tightly, 
You  who  must  depart, 
The  morning  mist 
Is  grey  and  miasmic. 

TEMPLE  CEREMONY 
(From  the  Japanese  of  Sojo  Henjo) 
BLOW  softly, 
OWind! 
And  let  no  clouds  cover  the  moon 


24  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Which  lights  the  posturing  steps 
Of  the  most  beautiful  of  dancers. 

Two  PORTERS  RETURNING  ALONG  A  COUNTRY  ROAD 
SINCE  an  empty  kago  can  be  carried  upon  the  back 

of  one  man, 

Therefore  the  other  has  nothing  to  do 
But  gaze  at  the  white  circle 
Drawn  about  the  flying  moon. 

STORM  BY  THE  SEASHORE 
THERE  is  no  moon  in  the  sky, 
But  with  each  step 
I  see  one  grow  in  the  sand 
Under  my  feet. 
This  interests  me  so  much 
That  I  forget  the  rain 
Beating  against  the  lantern 
Which  my  cloak  only  partially  covers. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  25 

THE  EXILED  EMPEROR 
THE  birds  sing  to-day, 
For  to-morrow  they  will  be  flown 
Many  miles  across  the  tossing 


LETTER  WRITTEN  FROM  PRISON  BY  Two  POLITICAL 

OFFENDERS 

WHEN  a  hero  fails  of  his  purpose, 
His  acts  are  regarded  as  those  of  a  villain  and  a  robber. 
Pursuing  liberty,  suddenly  our  plans  are  defeated. 
In  public  we  have  been  seized  and  pinioned  and 

caged  for  many  days. 
How  can  we  find  exit  from  this  place  ? 
Weeping,  we  seem  as  fools ;   laughing,  as  rogues. 
Alas !  for  us ;  we  can  only  be  silent. 

MOON  HAZE 

BECAUSE  the  moonlight  deceives 
Therefore  I  love  it. 


26          PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

PROPORTION 

IN  the  sky  there  is  a  moon  and  stars, 
And  in  my  garden  there  are  yellow  moths 
Fluttering  about  a  white  azalea  bush. 

CONSTANCY 

ALTHOUGH  so  many  years, 
Still  the  vows  we  made  each  other 
Remain  tied  to  the  great  trunk 
Of  the  seven  separate  trees 
In  the  courtyard  of  the  Crimson  Temple 
At  Nara. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  27 

CHINOISERIES 

REFLECTIONS 

WHEN  I  looked  into  your  eyes, 
I  saw  a  garden 

With  peonies,  and  tinkling  pagodas, 
And  round-arched  bridges 
Over  still  lakes. 
A  woman  sat  beside  the  water 
In  a  rain-blue,  silken  garment. 
She  reached  through  the  water 
To  pluck  the  crimson  peonies 
Beneath  the  surface, 
But  as  she  grasped  the  stems, 
They  jarred  and  broke  into  white-green  ripples ; 
And  as  she  drew  out  her  hand, 
The  water-drops  dripping  from  it 
Stained  her  rain-blue  dress  like  tears. 


28          PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

FALLING  SNOW 
THE  snow  whispers  about  me, 
And  my  wooden  clogs 
Leave  holes  behind  me  in  the  snow. 
But  no  one  will  pass  this  way 
Seeking  my  footsteps, 
And  when  the  temple  bell  rings  again 
They  will  be  covered  and  gone. 

HOAR-FROST 

IN  the  cloud-grey  mornings 
I  heard  the  herons  flying ; 
And  when  I  came  into  my  garden, 
My  silken  outer-garment 
Trailed  over  withered  leaves. 
A  dried  leaf  crumbles  at  a  touch, 
But  I  have  seen  many  Autumns 
With  herons  blowing  like  smoke 
Across  the  sky. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  29 

GOLD-LEAF  SCREEN 
UNDER  the  broken  clouds  of  dawn, 
The  white  leopards  eat  the  grapes    . 
In  my  vineyard. 

And  in  the  sunken  splendour  of  twilight, 
The  ring  pheasants  perch  among  the  red  fruit 
Of  my  pomegranate  trees. 
The  bright  coloured  varnish 
Scales  off  the  wheels  of  my  chariots, 
For  the  horses  which  should  draw  them 
Have  gone  Northward  in  a  gloom  of  spears. 
My  stablemen  march, 

Each  with  a  two-edged  spear  upon  his  shoulder, 
And  my  orchard   tenders  have   put  on  the  green 

feathered  helmets 

And  girt  themselves  with  black  bows. 
I  stand  above  the  terrace  of  three  hundred  rose-trees 
And  gaze  at  my  despoiled  vineyards. 


30  PICTURES  OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

Drums  beat  among  the  Northern  hills, 

But  I  hear  only  the  rattle  of  the  wind  on  the  chipped 

tiles 
Of  my  roof. 

A  thousand  little  stitches  in  the  soul  of  a  dead  man  — 
Still  one  can  enjoy  these  things 
Sitting  over  a  fire  of  camphor  wood 
In  a  quilted  gown  of  purple-red  silk. 

A  POET'S  WIFE 

Cho  Wen-chun  to  her  husband  Ssu-ma  Ilsiang-ju 
You  have  taken  our  love  and  turned  it  into  coins  of 

silver. 

You  sell  the  love  poems  you  wrote  for  me, 
And  with  the  price  of  them  you  buy  many  cups  of 

wine. 

I  beg  that  you  remain  dumb, 
That  you  write  no  more  poems. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  31 

For  the  wine  does  us  both  an  injury, 
And  the  words  of  your  heart 

Have  become  the  common  speech  of  the  Emperor's 
concubines. 


SPRING  LONGING 

THE  South  wind  blows  open  the  folds  of  my  dress, 
My  feet  leave  wet  tracks  in  the  earth  of  my  garden,  : 
The  willows  along  the  canal  sing 

with  new  leaves  turned  upon  the  wind. 

I  walk  along  the  tow-path 

Gazing  at  the  level  water. 

Should  I  see  a  ribbed  edge 

Running  upon  its  clearness, 

I  should  know  that  this  was  caused 

By  the  prow  of  the  boat 

In  which  you  are  to  return. 


32  PICTURES    OF   THE   FLOATING  WORLD 


LI  T'AI  PO 

So,  Master,  the  wine  gave  you  something, 
I  suppose. 

I  think  I  see  you, 

Your  silks  all  disarranged, 

Lolling  in  a  green-marble  pavilion, 

Ogling  the  concubines  of  the  Emperor's  Court 

Who  pass  the  door 

In  yellow  coats,  and  white  jade  ear-drops, 

Their  hair  pleated  in  folds  like  the  hundred  clouds. 

I  watch  you, 

Hiccoughing  poetry  between  drinks, 

Sinking  as  the  sun  sinks, 

Sleeping  for  twenty-four  hours, 

While  they  peek  at  you, 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  33 

Giggling, 

Through  the  open  door. 

You  found  something  in  the  wine, 

I  imagine, 

Since  you  could  not  leave  it, 

Even  when,  after  years  of  wandering, 

You  sat  in  the  boat  with  one  sail, 

Travelling  down  the  zigzag  rivers 

On  your  way  back  to  Court. 

You  had  a  dream, 

I  conjecture. 

You  saw  something  under  the  willow-lights  of  the 

water 

Which  swept  you  to  dizziness, 
So  that  you  toppled  over  the  edge  of  the  boat, 
And  gasped,  and  became  your  dream. 


34  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Twelve  hundred  years 

Or  thereabouts. 

Did  the  wine  do  it  ? 

I  would  sit  in  the  purple  moonlight 

And  drink  three  hundred  cups, 

If  I  believed  it. 

Three  hundred  full  cups, 

After  your  excellent  fashion, 

While  in  front  of  me 

The  river  dazzle  ran  before  the  moon, 

And  the  light  flaws  of  the  evening  wind 

Scattered  the  notes  of  nightingales 

Loosely  among  the  kuai  trees. 

They  erected  a  temple  to  you : 

"Great  Doctor, 

Prince  of  Poetry, 

Immortal  man  who  loved  drink." 


PICTURES  OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  35 

I  detest  wine, 

And  I  have  no  desire  for  the  temple, 

Which  under  the  circumstances 

Is  fortunate. 

But  I  would  sacrifice  even  sobriety 

If,  when  I  was  thoroughly  drunk, 

I  could  see  what  you  saw 

Under  the  willow-clouded  water, 

The  day  you  died. 


PLANES  OF  PERSONALITY 
TWO  SPEAK  TOGETHER 


VERNAL  EQUINOX 

THE  scent  of  hyacinths,  like  a  pale  mist,  lies  between 

me  and  my  book ; 

And  the  South  Wind,  washing  through  the  room, 
Makes  the  candles  quiver. 

My  nerves  sting  at  a  spatter  of  rain  on  the  shutter, 
And  I  am  uneasy  with  the  thrusting  of  green  shoots 
Outside,  in  the  night. 

Why  are  you  not  here  to  overpower  me  with  your 
tense  and  urgent  love  ?    < 


40  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


THE  LETTER 

LITTLE  cramped  words  scrawling  all  over  the  paper 

Like  draggled  fly's  legs, 

What  can  you  tell  of  the  flaring  moon 

Through  the  oak  leaves  ? 

Or  of  my  uncurtained  window  and  the  bare  floor 

Spattered  with  moonlight  ? 

Your  silly  quirks  and  twists  have  nothing  in  them 

Of  blossoming  hawthorns, 

And    this    paper  is    dull,   crisp,   smooth,   virgin  of 

loveliness 
Beneath  my  hand. 

I  am  tired,  Beloved,  of  chafing  my  heart  against 

The  want  of  you ; 

Of  squeezing  it  into  little  inkdrops, 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  4J 

And  posting  it. 

And  I  scald  alone,  here,  under  the  fire 

Of  the  great  moon. 


42  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


MISE  EN  SCENE 

WHEN  I  think  of  you,  Beloved, 

I  see  a  smooth  and  stately  garden 

With  parterres  of  gold  and  crimson  tulips 

And  bursting  lilac  leaves. 

There  is  a  low-lipped  basin  in  the  midst, 

Where  a  statue  of  veined  cream  marble 

Perpetually  pours  water  over  her  shoulder 

From  a  rounded  urn. 

When  the  wind  blows, 

The  water-stream  blows  before  it 

And  spatters  into  the  basin  with  a  light  tinkling, 

And  your  shawl  —  the  colour  of  red  violets  — 

Flares  out  behind  you  in  great  curves 

Like  the  swirling  draperies  of  a  painted  Madonna. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  43 

VENUS  TRANSIENS 

TELL  me, 

Was  Venus  more  beautiful 

Than  you  are, 

When  she  topped 

The  crinkled  waves, 

Drifting  shoreward 

On  her  plaited  shell  ? 

Was  Botticelli's  vision 

Fairer  than  mine ; 

And  were  the  painted  rosebuds 

He  tossed  his  lady, 

Of  better  worth 

Than  the  words  I  blow  about  you 

To  cover  your  too  great  loveliness 

As  with  a  gauze 

Of  misted  silver  ? 


44  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

For  me, 

You  stand  poised 

In  the  blue  and  buoyant  air, 

Cinctured  by  bright  winds, 

Treading  the  sunlight. 

And  the  waves  which  precede  you    , 

Ripple  and  stir 

The  sands  at  my  feet. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  45 

MADONNA  OF  THE  EVENING  FLOWERS 

ALL  day  long  I  have  been  working, 

Now  I  am  tired. 

I  call :  "Where  are  you?" 

But  there  is  only  the  oak-tree  rustling  in  the  wind. 

The  house  is  very  quiet, 

The  sun  shines  in  on  your  books, 

On  your  scissors  and  thimble  just  put  down, 

But  you  are  not  there. 

Suddenly  I  am  lonely : 

Where  are  you  ? 

I  go  about  searching. 

Then  I  see  you, 

Standing  under  a  spire  of  pale  blue  larkspur, 

With  a  basket  of  roses  on  your  arm. 

You  are  cool,  like  silver, 


46  PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING   WORLD 

And  you  smile. 

I  think  the  Canterbury  bells  are  playing  little  tunes. 

You  tell  me  that  the  peonies  need  spraying, 

That  the  columbines  have  overrun  all  bounds, 

That  the  pyrus  japonica  should  be  cut  back  and 

rounded. 

You  tell  me  these  things. 
But  I  look  at  you,  heart  of  silver, 
White  heart-flame  of  polished  silver, 
Burning  beneath  the  blue  steeples  of  the  larkspur, 
And  I  long  to  kneel  instantly  at  your  feet, 
While  all  about  us  peal  the  loud,  sweet  Te  Deums  of 

the  Canterbury  bells. 


PICTURES  OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD  47 


BRIGHT  SUNLIGHT 

THE  wind  has  blown  a  corner  of  your  shawl 

Into  the  fountain, 

Where  it  floats  and  drifts 

Among  the  lily-pads 

Like  a  tissue  of  sapphires. 

But  you  do  not  heed  it, 

Your  fingers  pick  at  the  lichens 

On  the  stone  edge  of  the  basin, 

And  your  eyes  follow  the  tall  clouds 

As  they  sail  over  the  ilex-trees. 


48  PICTURES  OF   THE  FLOATING  WORLD 


OMBRE  CHINOISE 

RED  foxgloves  against  a  yellow  wall  streaked  with 

plum-coloured  shadows ; 
A  lady  with  a  blue  and  red  sunshade; 
The  slow  dash  of  waves  upon  a  parapet. 
That  is  all. 

Non-existent  —  immortal  — 
As  solid  as  the  centre  of  a  ring  of  fine  gold. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  49 


JULY  MIDNIGHT 

FIREFLIES  flicker  in  the  tops  of  trees, 

Flicker  in  the  lower  branches, 

Skim  along  the  ground. 

Over  the  moon-white  lilies 

Is  a  flashing  and  ceasing  of  small,  lemon-green  stars. 

As  you  lean  against  me, 

Moon-white, 

The  air  all  about  you 

Is  slit,  and  pricked,  and  pointed  with  sparkles  of 

lemon-green  flame 
Starting  out  of  a  background  of  vague,  blue  trees. 


50  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

WHEAT-IN-THE-EAR 

You  stand  between  the  cedars  and  the  green  spruces, 
Brilliantly  naked 
And  I  think : 

What  are  you, 

A  gem  under  sunlight  ? 

A  poised  spear  ? 

A  jade  cup  ? 

You  flash  in  front  of  the  cedars  and  the  tall  spruces, 
And  I  see  that  you  are  fire  — 
Sacrificial  fire  on  a  jade  altar, 
Spear-tongue  of  white,  ceremonial  fire. 
My  eyes  burn, 

My  hands  are  flames  seeking  you, 
But  you  are  as  remote  from  me  as  a  bright  pointed 

planet 
Set  in  the  distance  of  an  evening  sky. 


PICTURES  OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  51 

THE  WEATHER-COCK  POINTS    SOUTH 

I  PUT  your  leaves  aside, 

One  by  one : 

The  stiff,  broad  outer  leaves ; 

The  smaller  ones, 

Pleasant  to  touch,  veined  with  purple ; 

The  glazed  inner  leaves. 

One  by  one 

I  parted  you  from  your  leaves, 

Until  you  stood  up  like  a  white  flower 

Swaying  slightly  in  the  evening  wind. 

White  flower, 

Flower  of  wax,  of  jade,  of  unstreaked  agate; 

Flower  with  surfaces  of  ice, 

With  shadows  faintly  crimson. 

Where  in  all  the  garden  is  there  such  a  flower  ? 

The  stars  crowd  through  the  lilac  leaves 


52  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

To  look  at  you. 

The  low  moon  brightens  you  with  silver. 

The  bud  is  more  than  the  calyx. 

There  is  nothing  to  equal  a  white  bud, 

Of  no  colour,  and  of  all, 

Burnished  by  moonlight, 

Thrust  upon  by  a  softly-swinging  wind. 


PICTURES   OP  THE   FLOATING  WORLD  53 

THE  ARTIST 

WHY  do  you  subdue  yourself  in  golds  and  purples  ? 

Why  do  you  dim  yourself  with  folded  silks  ? 

Do  you  not  see  that  I  can  buy  brocades  in  any 

draper's  shop, 
And  that  I  am  choked  in  the  twilight  of  all  these 

colours. 

How  pale  you  would  be,  and  startling, 
How  quiet ; 

But  your  curves  would  spring  upward 
Like  a  clear  jet  of  flung  water, 
You  would  quiver  like  a  shot-up  spray  of  water, 
You  would  waver,  and  relapse,  and  tremble. 
And  I  too  should  tremble, 
Watching. 

Murex-dyes  and  tinsel  — 

And  yet  I  think  I  could  bear  your  beauty  unshaded. 


54  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

THE   GARDEN  BY  MOONLIGHT 

A  BLACK  cat  among  roses, 

Phlox,  lilac-misted  under  a  first-quarter  moon, 

The  sweet    smells    of    heliotrope  and    night-scented 

stock. 

The  garden  is  very  still, 
It  is  dazed  with  moonlight, 
Contented  with  perfume, 

Dreaming  the  opium  dreams  of  its  folded  poppies. 
Firefly  lights  open  and  vanish 
High  as  the  tip  buds  of  the  golden  glow 
Low  as  the  sweet  alyssum  flowers  at  my  feet. 
Moon-shimmer  on  leaves  and  trellises, 
Moon-spikes  shafting  through  the  snow-ball  bush. 
Only  the  little  faces  of  the  ladies'  delight  are  alert 

and  staring, 
Only  the  cat,  padding  between  the  roses, 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  55 

Shakes  a  branch  and  breaks  the  chequered  pattern 

As  water  is  broken  by  the  falling  of  a  leaf. 

Then  you  come, 

And  you  are  quiet  like  the  garden, 

And  white  like  the  alyssum  flowers, 

And  beautiful  as  the  silent  sparks  of  the  fireflies. 

Ah,  Beloved,  do  you  see  those  orange  lilies  ? 

They  knew  my  mother, 

But  who  belonging  to  me  will  they  know 

When  I  am  gone. 


56  PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

INTERLUDE 

WHEN  I  have  baked  white  cakes 

And  grated  green  almonds  to  spread  upon  them ; 

When  I   have   picked  the  green   crowns   from   the 

strawberries 
And  piled  them,  cone-pointed,  in  a  blue  and  yellow 

platter ; 
When  I  have  smoothed  the  seam  of  the  linen  I  have 

been  working ; 
What  then? 

To-morrow  it  will  be  the  same : 
Cakes  and  strawberries, 
And  needles  in  and  out  of  cloth. 
If  the  sun  is  beautiful  on  bricks  and  pewter, 
How  much  more  beautiful  is  the  moon, 
Slanting  down  the  gauffered  branches  of  a  plum-tree ; 
The  moon, 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  57 

Wavering  across  a  bed  of  tulips ; 

The  moon, 

Still, 

Upon  your  face. 

You  shine,  Beloved, 

You  and  the  moon. 

But  which  is  the  reflection  ? 

The  clock  is  striking  eleven 

I  think,  when  we  have  shut  and  barred  the  door, 

The  night  will  be  dark 

Outside. 


58  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 


BULLION 

MY  thoughts 

Chink  against  my  ribs 

And  roll  about  like  silver  hail-stones. 

I  should  like  to  spill  them  out, 

And  pour  them,  all  shining, 

Over  you. 

But  my  heart  is  shut  upon  them 

And  holds  them  straitly. 

Come,  You !  and  open  my  heart ; 

That  my  thoughts  torment  me  no  longer, 

But  glitter  in  your  hair. 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  59 

THE  WHEEL  OF  THE  SUN 

I  BEG  you 

Hide  your  face  from  me. 

Draw  the  tissue  of  your  head-gear 

Over  your  eyes. 

For  I  am  blinded  by  your  beauty, 

And  my  heart  is  strained, 

And  aches, 

Before  you. 

In  the  street, 

You  spread  a  brightness  where  you  walk, 

And  I  see  your  lifting  silks 

And  rejoice ; 

But  I  cannot  look  up  to  your  face. 

You  melt  my  strength, 

And  set  my  knees  to  trembling. 


60  PICTURES  OP  THE  FLOATING   WORLD 

Shadow  yourself  that  I  may  love  you, 
For  now  it  is  too  great  a  pain. 


PICTUEES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  61 


A  SHOWER 

THAT  sputter  of  rain,  flipping  the  hedge-rows 

And  making  the  highways  hiss, 

How  I  love  it ! 

And  the  touch  of  you  upon  my  arm 

As  you  press  against  me  that  my  umbrella 

May  cover  you. 

Tinkle  of  drops  on  stretched  silk. 
Wet  murmur  through  green  branches. 


62  PICTURES  OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

SUMMER  RAIN 

ALL  night  our  room  was  outer-walled  with  rain. 

Drops  fell  and  flattened  on  the  tin  roof, 

And  rang  like  little  disks  of  metal. 

Ping  !  —  Ping !  —  and  there  was  not  a  pin-point  of 
silence  between  them. 

The  rain  rattled  and  clashed, 

And  the  slats  of  the  shutters  danced  and  glittered. 

But  to  me  the  darkness  was  red-gold  and  crocus- 
coloured 

With  your  brightness, 

And  the  words  you  whispered  to  me 

Sprang  up  and  flamed  —  orange  torches  against  the 
rain. 

Torches  against  the  wall  of  cool,  silver  rain ! 


PICTURES  OF   THE  FLOATING   WORLD  63 

APRIL 

A  BIRD  chirped  at  my  window  this  morning, 

And  over  the  sky  is  drawn  a  light  net-work  of  clouds. 

Come, 

Let  us  go  out  into  the  open, 

For  my  heart  leaps  like  a  fish  that  is  ready  to  spawn. 

I  will  lie  under  the  beech-trees, 

Under  the  grey  branches  of  the  beech-trees, 

In  a  blueness  of  little  squills  and  crocuses. 

I  will  lie  among  the  little  squills 

And  be  delivered  of  this  overcharge  of  beauty, 

And  that  which  is  born  shall  be  a  joy  to  you 

Who  love  me. 


64  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

COQ  D'OR 

I  WALKED  along  a  street  at  dawn  in  cold,  grey  light, 
Above  me  lines  of  windows  watched,  gaunt,  dull, 

drear. 
The  lamps  were  fading,  and  the  sky  was  streaked 

rose-red, 

Silhouetting  chimneys  with  their  queer,  round  pots. 
My  feet  upon  the  pavement  made  a  knock  —  knock  — 

knock. 

Above  the  roofs  of  Westminster,  Big  Ben  struck. 
The  cocks  on  all  the  steeples  crew  in  clear,  flat  tones, 
And    churchyard    daisies    sprang    away    from    thin, 

bleak  bones. 
The  golden  trees  were  calling  me  :    "  Come !    Come ! 

Come!" 
The  trees  were  fresh  with  daylight,  and  I  heard  bees 

hum. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  65 

A  cart  trailed  slowly  down  the  street,  its  load  young 

greens, 
They    sparkled   like   blown    emeralds,    and    then   I 

laughed. 

A  morning  in  the  city  with  its  upthrust  spires 
All  tipped  with  gold  and  shining  in  the  brisk,  blue  air, 
But  the  gold  is  round  my  forehead  and  the  knot  still 

holds 
Where  you  tied  it  in  the  shadows,  your  rose-gold  hair. 


66  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 


THE  CHARM 

I  LAY  them  before  you, 

One,  two,  three  silver  pieces, 

And  a  copper  piece 

Dulled  with  handling. 

The  first  will  buy  you  a  cake, 

The  second  a  flower, 

The  third  a  coloured  bead. 

The  fourth  will  buy  you  nothing  at  all, 

Since  it  has  a  hole  in  it. 

I  beg  you,  therefore, 

String  it  about  your  neck, 

At  least  it  will  remind  you  of  my  poverty. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  67 

AFTER  A  STORM 

You  walk  under  the  ice  trees. 

They  sway,  and  crackle, 

And  arch  themselves  splendidly 

To  deck  your  going. 

The  white  sun  flips  them  into  colour 

Before  you. 

They  are  blue, 

And  mauve, 

And  emerald. 

They  are  amber,  > 

And  jade, 

And  sardonyx. 

They  are  silver  fretted  to  flame 

And  startled  to  stillness, 

Bunched,  splintered,  iridescent. 

You  walk  under  the  ice  trees 

And  the  bright  snow  creaks  as  you  step  upon  it. 


68  PICTURES  OF   THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

My  dogs  leap  about  you, 

And  their  barking  strikes  upon  the  air 

Like  sharp  hammer-strokes  on  metal. 

You  walk  under  the  ice  trees 

But  you  are  more  dazzling  than  the  ice  flowers, 

And  the  dogs'  barking 

Is  not  so  loud  to  me  as  your  quietness. 

You  walk  under  the  ice  trees 

i 

At  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


OPAL 

You  are  ice  and  fire, 

The  touch  of  you  burns  my  hands  like  snow. 

You  are  cold  and  flame. 

You  are  the  crimson  of  amaryllis, 

The  silver  of  moon-touched  magnolias., 

When  I  am  with  you, 

My  heart  is  a  frozen  pond 

Gleaming  with  agitated  torches. 


70  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 


WAKEFULNESS 

JOLT  of  market-carts ; 

Steady  drip  of  horses'  hoofs  on  hard  pavement ; 

A  black  sky  lacquered  over  with  blueness, 

And  the  lights  of  Battersea  Bridge 

Pricking  pale  in  the  dawn. 

The  beautiful  hours  are  passing 

And  still  you  sleep ! 

Tired  heart  of  my  joy, 

Incurved  upon  your  dreams, 

Will  the  day  come  before  you  have  opened  to  me  ? 


PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  71 

ORANGE  OF  MIDSUMMER 

You  came  to  me  in  the  pale  starting  of  Spring, 

And  I  could  not  see  the  world 

For  the  blue  mist  of  wonder  before  my  eyes. 

You  beckoned  me  over  a  rainbow  bridge, 

And  I  set  foot  upon  it,  trembling. 

Through  pearl  and  saffron  I  followed  you, 

Through  heliotrope  and  rose, 

Iridescence  after  iridescence, 

And  to  me  it  was  all  one 

Because  of  the  blue  mist  that  held  my  eyes. 

You  came  again,  and  it  was  red-hearted  Summer. 
You  called  to  me  across  a  field  of  poppies  and  wheat, 
With  a  narrow  path  slicing  through  it 
Straight  to  an  outer  boundary  of  trees. 
And  I  ran  along  the  path, 


72  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Brushing  over  the  yellow  wheat  beside  it, 

And  came  upon  you  under  a  maple-tree,    plaiting 

poppies  for  a  girdle. 
"Are  you  thirsty?"  said  you, 
And  held  out  a  cup. 

But  the  water  in  the  cup  was  scarlet  and  crimson 
Like  the  poppies  in  your  hands. 
"It  looks  like  blood,"  I  said. 
"Like  blood,"  you  said, 
"Does  it? 
But  drink  it,  my  Beloved," 


PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  73 


SHORE  GRASS 

THE  moon  is  cold  over  the  sand-dunes, 

And  the  clumps  of  sea-grasses  flow  and  glitter ; 

The  thin  chime  of  my  watch  tells  the  quarter  after 

midnight ; 

And  still  I  hear  nothing 
But  the  windy  beating  of  the  sea. 


74  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING   WORLD 


AUTUMNAL  EQUINOX 

WHY  do  you  not  sleep,  Beloved  ? 

It  is  so  cold  that  the  stars  stand  out  of  the  sky 

Like  golden  nails  not  driven  home. 

The  fire  crackles  pleasantly, 

And  I  sit  here  listening 

For  your  regular  breathing  from  the  room  above. 

What  keeps  you  awake,  Beloved  ? 

Is  it  the  same  nightmare  that  keeps  me  strained  with 

listening 
So  that  I  cannot  read  ? 


PICTURES  OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  75 


THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 

DID  the  door  move,  or  was  it  always  ajar  ? 
The  gladioli  on  the  table  are  pale  mauve. 
I  smell  pale  mauve  and  blue, 
Blue  soft  like  bruises  —  putrid  —  oozing  — 
The  air  oozes  blue  —  mauve  — 

And  the  door  with  the  black  line  where  it  does  not 
shut! 

I  must  pass  that  door  to  go  to  bed, 
Or  I  must  stay  here 
And  watch  the  crack 
Oozing  air. 

Is  it  — air? 


76  PICTURES   OF   THE  FLOATING   WORLD 

NERVES 

THE  lake  is  steel-coloured  and  umber, 
And  a  clutter  of  gaunt  clouds  blows  rapidly  across 
the  sky. 

I  wonder  why  you  chose  to  be  buried 

In  this  little  grave-yard  by  the  lake-side. 

It  is  all  very  well  on  blue  mornings, 

Summer  mornings, 

Autumn  mornings  polished  with  sunlight/ 

But  in  Winter,  in  the  cold  storms, 

When  there  is  no  wind, 

And  the  snow  murmurs  as  it  falls ! 

The  grave-stones  glimmer  in  the  twilight 

As  though  they  were  rubbed  with  phosphorous. 

The  direct  road  is  up  a  hill, 

v-v 

Through  woods  — 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  77 

I  will  take  the  lake  road, 

I  can  drive  faster  there. 

You  used  to  like  to  drive  with  me  — 

Why  does  death  make  you  this  fearful  thing  ? 

Flick !  —  flack !  —  my  horse's  feet  strike  the  stones. 

There  is  a  house  just  round  the  bend. 


78  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

LEFT  BEHIND 

WHITE  phlox  and  white  hydrangeas, 

High,  thin  clouds, 

A  low,  warm  sun. 

So  it  is  this  afternoon. 

But  the  phlox  will  be  a  drift  of  petals, 

And  the  hydrangeas  stained  and  fallen 

Before  you  come  again. 

I  cannot  look  at  the  flowers, 

Nor  the  lifting  leaves  of  the  trees. 

Without  you,  there  is  no  garden, 

No  bright  colours, 

No  shining  leaves. 

There  is  only  space, 

Stretching  endlessly  forward  — 

And  I  walk,  bent,  unseeing, 

Waiting  to  catch  the  first  faint  scuffle 

Of  withered  leaves. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  79 


AUTUMN 

THEY  brought  me  a  quilled,  yellow  dahlia, 

Opulent,  flaunting. 

Round  gold 

Flung  out  of  a  pale  green  stalk. 

Round,  ripe  gold 

Of  maturity, 

Meticulously  frilled  and  flaming, 

A  fire-ball  of  proclamation : 

Fecundity  decked  in  staring  yellow 

For  all  the  world  to  see. 

They  brought  a  quilled,  yellow  dahlia, 

To  me  who  am  barren. 

Shall  I  send  it  to  you, 

You  who  have  taken  with  you 

All  I  once  possessed  ? 


80  PICTUBES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


THE  SIXTEENTH  FLOOR 

THE  noise  of  the  city  sounds  below  me. 
It  clashes  against  the  houses 
And  rises  like  smoke  through  the  narrow  streets. 
It  polishes  the  marble  fronts  of  houses, 
Grating  itself  against  them, 
And  they  shine  in  the  lamplight 
And  cast  their  echoes  back  upon  the  asphalt  of  the 
streets. 

But  I  hear  no  sound  of  your  voice, 
The  city  is  incoherent  —  trivial, 
And  my  brain  aches  with  emptiness. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  81 

STRAIN 

IT  is  late 

And  the  clock  is  striking  thin  hours, 

But  sleep  has  become  a  terror  to  me, 

Lest  I  wake  in  the  night 

Bewildered, 

And  stretching  out  my  arms  to  comfort  myself  with 

you, 

Clasp  instead  the  cold  body  of  the  darkness. 
All  night  it  will  hunger  over  me, 
And  push  and  undulate  against  me, 
Breathing  into  my  mouth 

And  passing  long  fingers  through  my  drifting  hair. 
Only  the  dawn  can  loose  me  from  it, 
And  the  grey  streaks  of  morning  melt  it  from  my  side. 

Bring  many  candles, 

Though  they  stab  my  tired  brain 


82  PICTURES    OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

And  hurt  it. 

For  I  am  afraid  of  the  twining  of  the  darkness 

And  dare  not  sleep* 


PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  83 


HAUNTED 

SEE  !    He  trails  his  toes 

Through  the  long  streaks  of  moonlight, 

And  the  nails  of  his  fingers  glitter : 

They  claw  and  flash  among  the  tree-tops. 

His  lips  suck  at  my  open  window, 

And  his  breath  creeps  about  my  body 

And  lies  in  pools  under  my  knees. 

I  can  see  his  mouth  sway  and  wobble, 

Sticking  itself  against  the  window- jambs, 

But  the  moonlight  is  bright  on  the  floor, 

Without  a  shadow. 

Hark !    A  hare  is  strangling  in  the  forest, 

And  the  wind  tears  a  shutter  from  the  wall. 


84  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

GROTESQUE 

WHY  do  the  lilies  goggle  their  tongues  at  me 

When  I  pluck  them ; 

And  writhe,  and  twist, 

And  strangle  themselves  against  my  fingers, 

So  that  I  can  hardly  weave  the  garland, 

For  your  hair  ? 

Why  do  they  shriek  your  name 

And  spit  at  me 

When  I  would  cluster  them  ? 

Must  I  kill  them 

To  make  them  lie  still, 

And  send  you  a  wreath  of  lolling  corpses 

To  turn  putrid  and  soft 

On  your  forehead 

While  you  dance  ? 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD  85 

SNOW  IN  APRIL 

SUNSHINE  ! 

Sunshine ! 

Smooth  blue  skies, 

Fresh  winds  through  early  tree-tops, 

Pointed  shoots, 

White  bells, 

White  and  purple  cups. 

I  am  a  plum-tree 

Checked  at  its  flowering. 

My  blossoms  wither, 

My  branches  grow  brittle  again. 

I  stretch  them  out  and  up, 

But  the  snowflakes  fall  — 

Whirl  — and  fall. 

April  and  snow, 

And  my  heart  stuffed  and  suffocating 


86  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Dead, 

With  rny  blossoms  brown  and  dropping 

Upon  my  cold  roots. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  87 


A  SPRIG  OF  ROSEMARY 

I  CANNOT  see  your  face. 

When  I  think  of  you, 

It  is  your  hands  which  I  see. 

Your  hands 

Sewing, 

Holding  a  book, 

Resting  for  a  moment  on  the  sill  of  a  window. 

My  eyes  keep  always  the  sight  of  your  hands, 

But  my  heart  holds  the  sound  of  your  voice, 

And  the  soft  brightness  which  is  your  soul. 


88  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

MALADIE  DE  L'APRES-MIDI 

"WHY  does  the  clanking  of  a  tip-cart 

In  the  road 

Make  me  so  sad  ? 

The  sound  beats  the  air 

Wit,h  flat  blows, 

Dull  and  continued. 

Not  even  the  clear  sunshine 
Through  bronze  and  green  oak  leaves, 
Nor  the  crimson  spindle  of  a  cedar-tree 
Hooded  with  Virginia  creeper, 
Nor  the  humming  brightness  of  the  air, 
Can  comfort  my  melancholy. 

The  cart  goes  slowly, 
It  creeps  at  a  foot-pace, 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  89 

And  the  flat  blows  of  sound 

Hurt  me, 

And  bring  me  nearly  to  weeping. 


90  PICTURES  OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD 


NOVEMBER 

THE  vine  leaves  against  the  brick  walls  of  my  house 

Are  rusty  and  broken. 

Dead  leaves  gather  under  the  pine-trees, 

The  brittle  boughs  of  lilac-bushes 

Sweep  against  the  stars. 

And  I  sit  under  a  lamp 

Trying  to  write  down  the  emptiness  of  my  heart. 

Even  the  cat  will  not  stay  with  me, 

But  prefers  the  rain 

Under  the  meagre  shelter  of  a  cellar  window. 


PICTURES   OP   THE  FLOATING   WORLD  91 

NOSTALGIA 

"THROUGH  pleasures  and  palaces'*  — 

Through  hotels,  and  Pullman  cars,  and  steamships  .  .  . 

Pink  and  white  camellias 

floating  in  a  crystal  bowl, 
The  sharp  smell  of  firewood, 
The  scrape  and  rustle  of  a  dog  stretching  himself 

M 

on  a  hardwood  floor, 
And  your  voice,  reading  —  reading  — 

to  the  slow  ticking  of  an  old  brass  clock  .  . 

"Tickets,  please!" 

And  I  watch  the  man  in  front  of  me 

Fumbling  in  fourteen  pockets, 

While  the  conductor  balances  his  ticket-punch 

Between  his  fingers. 


92  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING  WOHLD 

PREPARATION 

TO-DAY  I  went  into  a  shop  where  they  sell  spectacles. 

"Sir,"  said  the  shopman,  "what  can  I  do  for  you? 
Are  you  far-sighted  or  near-sighted  ?  " 

"Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,"  said  I. 

"I  can  read  the  messages  passing  along  the  telegraph 

wires, 

And  I  can  see  the  antennae  of  a  fly 
Perched  upon  the  bridge  of  my  nose." 

"Rose-coloured  spectacles,  perhaps?"    suggested  the 
shopman. 

"Indeed,  no,"  said  I. 

"Were  I  to  add  them  to  my  natural  vision 

I  should  see  everything  ruined  with  blood." 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  93 

"Green  spectacles,"  opined  the  shopman. 

"By  no  means,"  said  I. 

"I  am  far  too  prone  to  that  colour  at  moments. 
No.     You  can  give  me  some  smoked  glasses 
For  I  have  to  meet  a  train  this  afternoon." 

"What  a  world  yours  must  be,  Sir," 

Observed    the    shopman    as    he    wrapped    up    the 

spectacles, 
"  When  it  requires  to  be  dimmed  by  smoked  glasses." 

"Not  a  world,"  said  I,  and  laid  the  money  down  on 

the  counter, 
"Certainly  not  a  world. 
Good-day." 


94  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


A  DECADE 

WHEN  you  came,  you  were  like  red  wine  and  honey, 
And  the   taste  of  you   burnt  my  mouth   with  its 

sweetness. 

Now  you  are  like  morning  bread, 
Smooth  and  pleasant. 

I  hardly  taste  you  at  all  for  I  know  your  savour, 
But  I  am  completely  nourished. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  95 


PENUMBRA 

As  I  sit  here  in  the  quiet  Summer  night, 

Suddenly,  from  the  distant  road,  there  comes 

The  grind  and  rush  of  an  electric  car. 

And,  from  still  farther  off, 

An  engine  puffs  sharply, 

Followed   by  the  drawn-out  shunting   scrape   of  a 

freight  train. 

These  are  the  sounds  that  men  make 
In  the  long  business  of  living. 
They  will  always  make  such  sounds, 
Years  after  I  am  dead  and  cannot  hear  them. 

Sitting  here  in  the  Summer  night, 

I  think  of  my  death. 

What  will  it  be  like  for  you  then? 


96  PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

You  will  see  my  chair 

With  its  bright  chintz  covering 

Standing  hi  the  afternoon  sunshine,  "S 

As  now. 

You  will  see  my  narrow  table 

At  which  I  have  written  so  many  hours. 

My  dogs  will  push  their  noses  into  your  hand, 

And  ask  —  ask  — 

Clinging  to  you  with  puzzled  eyes.  _. 

The  old  house  will  still  be  here, 

The    old    house    which    has    known    me    since    the 

beginning. 

The  walls  which  have  watched  me  while  I  played  : 
Soldiers,  marbles,  paper-dolls, 
Which  have  protected  me  and  my  books.  ) 

The  front-door  will  gaze  down  among  the  old  trees 
Where,  as  a  child,  I  hunted  ghosts  and  Indians ; 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  97 

It  will  look  out  on  the  wide  gravel  sweep 

Where  I  rolled  my  hoop, 

And  at  the  rhododendron  bushes 

Where  I  caught  black-spotted  butterflies. 

i 

The  old  house  will  guard  you, 

As  I  have  done. 

Its  walls  and  rooms  will  hold  you, 

And  I  shall  whisper  my  thoughts  and  fancies 

As  always, 

From  the  pages  of  my  books. 

You  will  sit  here,  some  quiet  Summer  night, 

Listening  to  the  puffing  trains, 

But  you  will  not  be  lonely, 

For  these  things  are  a  part  of  me. 

And  my  love  will  go  on  speaking  to  you 

Through  the  chairs,  and  the  tables,  and  the  pictures, 

As  it  does  now  through  my  voice, 

And  the  quick,  necessary  touch  of  my  hand. 


98  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

FRIMAIRE 

DEAREST,  we  are  like  two  flowers 
Blooming  last  in  a  yellowing  garden, 
A  purple  aster  flower  and  a  red  one 
Standing  alone  in  a  withered  desolation. 

The  garden  plants  are  shattered  and  seeded, 
One  brittle  leaf  scrapes  against  another, 
Fiddling  echoes  of  a  rush  of  petals. 
Now  only  you  and  I  nodding  together. 

Many  were  with  us ;   they  have  all  faded. 
Only  we  are  purple  and  crimson, 
Only  we  in  the  dew-clear  mornings, 
Smarten  into  colour  as  the  sun  rises. 

When  I  scarcely  see  you  in  the  flat  moonlight, 
And  later  when  my  cold  roots  tighten, 


PICTTJBES  OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  99 

I  am  anxious  for  the  morning, 

I  cannot  rest  in  fear  of  what  may  happen. 

You  or  I  —  and  I  am  a  coward. 
Surely  frost  should  take  the  crimson. 
Purple  is  a  finer  colour, 
Very  splendid  in  isolation. 

So  we  nod  above  the  broken 
Stems  of  flowers  almost  rotted. 
Many  mornings  there  cannot  be  now 
For  us  both.     Ah,  Dear,  I  love  you  ! 


EYES,  AND    EARS,    AND  WALKING 


SOLITAIRE 

WHEN  night  drifts  along  the  streets  of  the  city, 

And  sifts  down  between  the  uneven  roofs, 

My  mind  begins  to  peek  and  peer. 

It  plays  at  ball  in  old,  blue  Chinese  gardens, 

And  shakes  wrought  dice-cups  in  Pagan  temples 

Amid  the  broken  flu  tings  of  white  pillars. 

It  dances  with  purple  and  yellow  crocuses  in  its  hair, 

And  its  feet  shine  as  they  flutter  over  drenched  grasses. 

How  light  and  laughing  my  mind  is, 

When  all  the  good  folk  have  put  out  their  bedroom 

candles, 
And  the  city  is  still ! 


104  PICTURES  OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD 


THE  BACK  BAY  FENS 

Study  in  Orange  and  Silver 

THROUGH  the  Spring-thickened  branches 

I  see  it  floating, 

An  ivory  dome 

Headed  to  gold  by  the  dim  sun. 

It  hangs  against  a  white-misted  sky, 

And  the  swollen  branches 

Open  or  cover  it, 

As  they  blow  in  the  wet  wind. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  105 

FREE  FANTASIA  ON  JAPANESE  THEMES 

ALL  the  afternoon  there  has  been  a  chirping  of  birds, 
And  the  sun  lies,  warm  and  still,  on  the  Western  sides 

of  puffed  branches. 
There  is  no  wind, 
Even  the  little  twigs  at  the  ends  of  the  branches  do 

not  move, 

And  the  needles  of  the  pines  are  solid, 
Bands  of  inarticulated  blackness, 
Against  the  blue-white  sky. 
Still  —  but  alert  — 
And  my  heart  is  still  and  alert, 
Passive  with  sunshine 
Avid  of  adventure. 

I  would  experience  new  emotions  — 
Submit  to  strange  enchantments  — 


106  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Bend  to  influences, 

Bizarre,  exotic, 

Fresh  with  burgeoning. 

I  would  climb  a  Sacred  Mountain, 

Struggle  with  other  pilgrims  up  a  steep  path  through 

pine-trees 

Above  to  the  smooth,  treeless  slopes, 
And  prostrate  myself  before  a  painted  shrine, 
Beating  my  hands  upon  the  hot  earth, 
Quieting  my  eyes  with  the  distant  sparkle 
Of  the  faint  Spring  sea. 

I  would  recline  upon  a  balcony 

In  purple  curving  folds  of  silk, 

And  my  dress  should  be  silvered  with  a  pattern 

Of  butterflies  and  swallows, 

And  the  black  band  of  my  obi 

Should  flash  with  gold,  circular  threads, 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING    WORLD  107 

And  glitter  when  I  moved. 

I  would  lean  against  the  railing 

While  you  sang  to  me  of  wars  —  ) 

Past,  and  to  come  — 

Sang  and  played  the  samisen. 

Perhaps  I  would  beat  a  little  hand  drum 

In  time  to  your  singing ; 

Perhaps  I  would  only  watch  the  play  of  light 

On  the  hilts  of  your  two  swords. 

I  would  sit  in  a  covered  boat, 

Rocking  slowly  to  the  narrow  waves  of  a  river, 

While  above  us,  an  arc  of  moving  lanterns, 

Curved  a  bridge. 

And  beyond  the  bridge, 

A  hiss  of  gold 

Blooming  out  of  blackness, 

Rockets  exploded, 

And  died  in  a  soft  dripping  of  coloured  stars. 


108  PICTURES   OP   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

We  would  float  between  the  high  trestles, 
And  drift  away  from  the  other  boats, 
Until  the  rockets  flared  without  sound 
And  their  falling  stars  hung  silent  in  the  sky 
Like  wistaria  clusters  above  the  ancient  entrance  of 
a  temple. 

I  would  anything 

Rather  than  this  cold  paper, 

With,  outside,  the  quiet  sun  on  the  sides  of  burgeoning 

branches, 
And  inside,  only  my  books. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  109 

AT  THE    BOOKSELLER'S 

HANGING  from  the  ceiling  by  threads 

Are  prints, 

Hundreds  of  prints 

Of  actors  and  courtesans, 

Cheap,  everyday  prints 

To  delight  the  common  people. 

Those  which  please  the  most  arc  women 

With  long,  slim  fingers, 

In  dresses  of  snow-blue, 

Of  green  the  colour  of  the  heart  of  a  young  onion, 

Of  rose,  of  black,  of  dead-leaf  brown. 

Over  the  dresses  runs  a  light  tracing 

Of  superimposed  tissues : 

Orange  undulations,  zigzag  cinnabar  trellises, 

Patterns  of  purplish  paulownias. 

In  the  corner  of  one  of  the  prints  is  written : 

"  Utamaro  has  here  painted  his  elegant  visage." 


110  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

They  cost  nothing,  these  pictures, 

They  are  only  one  of  the  cheap  amusements  of  the 

populace, 

Yet  they  say  that  the  publisher :  Tsoutaya, 
Has  made  a  fortune. 


PICTURES  OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  111 

VIOLIN  SONATA  BY  VINCENT  D'INDY 

To  CHARLES  MARTIN  LOEFFLER 
A  LITTLE  brown  room  in  a  sea  of  fields, 
Fields  pink  as  rose-mallows 
Under  a  fading  rose-mallow  sky. 

Four  candles  on  a  tall  iron  candlestick, 

Clustered  like  altar  lights. 

Above,  the  models  of  four  brown  Chinese  junks 

Sailing  round  the  brown  walls, 

Silent  and  motionless. 

The  quick  cut  of  a  vibrating  string, 

Another,  and  another, 

Biting  into  the  silence. 

Notes  pierce,  sharper  and  sharper ; 

They  draw  up  in  a  freshness  of  sound, 


112  PICTURES    OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Higher  —  higher,    to    the    whiteness    of    intolerable 

beauty. 

They  are  jagged  and  clear, 
Like  snow  peaks  against  the  sky ; 
They  hurt  like  air  too  pure  to  breathe. 
Is  it  catgut  and  horsehair, 
Or  flesh  sawing  against  the  cold  blue  gates  of  the  sky  ? 

The   brown   Chinese   junks   sail   silently   round   the 
brown  walls. 

A  cricket  hurries  across  the  bare  floor. 
The  windows  are  black,  for  the  sun  has  set. 

Only  the  candles, 

Clustered  like  altar  lamps  upon  their  tall  candlestick, 

Light  the  violinist  as  he  plays. 


PICTURES   OF   THE  FLOATING   WORLD  113 

WINTER'S  TURNING 

SNOW  is  still  on  the  ground, 

But  there  is  a  golden  brightness  in  the  air. 

Across  the  river, 

Blue, 

Blue, 

Sweeping  widely  under  the  arches 

Of  many  bridges, 

Is  a  spire  and  a  dome, 

Clear  as  though  ringed  with  ice-flakes, 

Golden,  and  pink,  and  jocund. 

On  a  near-by  steeple, 

A  golden  weather-cock  flashes  smartly, 

His  open  beak  "Cock-a-doodle-dooing" 

Straight  at  the  ear  of  Heaven. 

A  tall  apartment  house, 

Crocus-coloured, 

Thrusts  up  from  the  street 


114  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Like  a  new-sprung  flower. 

Another  street  is  edged  and  patterned 

With  the  bloom  of  bricks, 

Houses  and  houses  of  rose-red  bricks, 

Every  window  a-glitter. 

/ 
The  city  is  a  parterre, 

Blowing  and  glowing, 

Alight  with  the  wind, 

Washed  over  with  gold  and  mercury. 

Let  us  throw  up  our  hats, 

For  we  are  past  the  age  of  balls 

And  have  none  handy. 

Let  us  take  hold  of  hands, 

And  race  along  the  sidewalks, 

And  dodge  the  traffic  in  crowded  streets. 

Let  us  whir  with  the  golden  spoke-wheels 

Of  the  sun. 

For  to-morrow  Winter  drops  into  the  waste-basket, 

And  the  calendar  calls  it  March. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  115 


EUCHARIS  AMAZONICA 

WAX-WHITE  lilies 

shaped  like  narcissus, 
Frozen  snow-rockets 

burst  from  a  thin  green  stem, 
Your  trumpets  spray  antennae 

like  cold,  sweet  notes  stabbing  air. 

In  your  cups 

is  the  sharpness  of  winds, 
The  white  husks  of  your  blooms 

crack  as  ice  cracks, 
You  strike  against  the  darkness 

as  hoar-frost  patterning  a  window. 

Wax-white  lilies, 
Eucharis  lilies, 


116  PICTURES  OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Mary  kissed  your  petals, 

And  the  chill  of  pure  snow 

Burned  her  lips  with  its  six-pointed  seal. 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  117 


THE  TWO  RAINS 

SPRING  RAIN 

TINKLING  of  ankle  bracelets. 
Dull  striking 
Of  jade  and  sardonyx 
From  whirling  ends  of  jointed  circlets. 

SUMMER  RAIN 

CLASHING  of  bronze  bucklers, 
Screaming  of  horses. 
Red  plumes  of  head-trappings 
Flashing  above  spears. 


118  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


GOOD  GRACIOUS! 

THEY  say  there  is  a  fairy  in  every  streak'd  tulip. 

I  have  rows  and  rows  of  them  beside  my  door. 

Hoop-la  !    Come  out,  Brownie, 

And  I  will  give  you  an  emerald  ear-ring  ! 

You  had  better  come  out, 

For  to-morrow  may  be  stormy, 

And  I  could  never  bring  myself  to  part  with  my 

emerald  ear-rings 
Unless  there  was  a  moon. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  119 


TREES 

THE  branches  of  the  trees  lie  in  layers 

Above  and  behind  each  other, 

And  the  sun  strikes  on  the  outstanding  leaves 

And  turns  them  white, 

And  they  dance  like  a  splatter  of  pebbles 

Against  a  green  wall. 

The  trees  make  a  solid  path  leading  up  in  the  air. 

It  looks  as  though  I  could  walk  upon  it 

If  I  only  had  courage  to  step  out  of  the  window. 


120  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

DAWN  ADVENTURE 

I  STOOD  in  my  window 

looking  at  the  double  cherry  : 
A  great  height  of  white  stillness, 
Underneath  a  sky 

the  colour  of  milky  grey  jade. 
Suddenly  a  crow  flew  between  me  and  the  tree  — 
Swooping,  falling,  in  a  shadow-black  curve  — 
And  blotted  himself  out  in  the  blurred  branches 

of  a  leafless  ash. 
There  he  stayed  for  some  time, 

and  I  could  only  distinguish  him  by  his 

slight  moving. 

Then  a  wind  caught  the  upper  branches  of  the  cherry, 
And  the  long,  white  stems  nodded  up  and  down, 

casually,  to  me  in  the  window, 
Nodded  —  but  overhead  the  grey  jade  clouds 

passed  slowly,  indifferently,  toward  the  sea. 


PICTURES   OF    THE   FLOATING    WORLD  121 


THE  CORNER  OF  NIGHT  AND 
MORNING 

CROWS  are  cawing  over  pine-trees, 

They  are  teaching  their  young  to  fly 

*> 
Above  the  tall  pyramids  of  double  cherries. 

Rose  lustre  over  black  lacquer  — 
The  feathers  of  the  young  birds  reflect   the  rose- 
rising  sun. 
Caw  !    Caw  ! 
I  want  to  go  to  sleep, 

But  perhaps  it  is  better  to  stand  in  the  window 
And  watch  the  crows  teaching  their  young  to  fly 
Over  the  pines  and  the  pyramidal  cherries, 
In  the  rose-gold  light 
Of  five  o'clock  on  a  May  morning. 


122  PICTUEES  OF  THE  FLOATING   WORLD 

BEECH,  PINE,  AND  SUNLIGHT 

THE  sudden  April  heat 

Stretches  itself 

Under  the  smooth,  leafless  branches 

Of  the  beech-tree, 

And  lies  lightly 

Upon  the  great  patches 

Of  purple  and  white  crocus 

With  their  panting,  wide-open  cups. 

A  clear  wind 

Slips  through  the  naked  beech  boughs, 

And  their  shadows  scarcely  stir. 

But  the  pine-trees  beyond  sigh 

When  it  passes  over  them 

And  presses  back  their  needles, 

And  slides  gently  down  their  stems.  -> 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD  123 

It  is  a  languor  of  pale,  south-starting  sunlight 
Come  upon  a  morning  unawaked,  „'• 
And  holding  her  drowsing. 


124  PICTURES   OF    THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

PLANNING  THE    GARDEN 

BRING  pencils,  fine  pointed, 

For  our  writing  must  be  infinitesimal ; 

And  bring  sheets  of  paper 

To  spread  before  us. 

Now  draw  the  plan  of  our  garden  beds, 

And  outline  the  borders  and  the  paths 

Correctly. 

We  will  scatter  little  words 

Upon  the  paper, 

Like  seeds  about  to  be  planted ; 

We  will  fill  all  the  whiteness 

With  little  words, 

So  that  the  brown  earth 

Shall  never  show  between  our  flowers ; 

Instead,  there  will  be  petals  and  greenness 

From  April  till  November. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  125 

These  narrow  lines 

Are  rose-drifted  thrift, 

Edging  the  paths. 

And  here  I  plant  nodding  columbines, 

With  tree-tall  wistarias  behind  them. 

Each  stem  umbrella'd  in  its  purple  fringe. 

Winged  sweet-peas  shall  flutter  next  to  pansies 

All  down  the  sunny  centre. 

Foxglove  spears, 

Thrust  back  against  the  swaying  lilac  leaves, 

Will  bloom  and  fade  before  the  China  asters 

Smear  their  crude  colours  over  Autumn  hazes. 

These  double  paths  dividing  make  an  angle 

For  bushes, 

Bleeding  hearts,  I  think, 

Their  flowers  jigging 

Like  little  ladies, 

Satined,  hoop-skirted, 

Ready  for  a  ball. 


126  PICTURES   OF   THE  FLOATING   WORLD 

The  round  black  circles 

Mean  striped  and  flaunting  tulips, 

The  clustered  trumpets  of  yellow  jonquils, 

And  the  sharp  blue  of  hyacinths  and  squills. 

These  specks  like  dotted  grain 

Are  coreopsis,  bright  as  bandanas, 

And  ice-blue  heliotrope  with  its  sticky  leaves, 

And  mignonette 

Whose  sober-coloured  cones  of  bloom 

Scent  quiet  mornings. 

And  poppies  !    Poppies  !    Poppies  ! 

The  hatchings  shall  all  mean  a  tide  of  poppies, 

Crinkled  and  frail  and  flowing  in  the  breeze. 

Wait  just  a  moment, 

Here's  an  empty  space. 

Now  plant  me  lilies-of -the- valley  — 

This  pear-tree  over  them  will  keep  them  cool  — 


PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  127 

We'll  have  a  lot  of  them 

With  white  bells  jingling. 

The  steps 

Shall  be  all  soft  with  stone-crop ; 

And  at  the  top 

I'll  make  an  arch  of  roses, 

Crimson, 

Bee-enticing. 

There,  it  is  done ; 
Seal  up  the  paper. 
Let  us  go  to  bed  and  dream  of  flowers.  ^ 


128  PICTURES   OP   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

IMPRESSIONIST  PICTURE  OF  A 
GARDEN 

GIVE  me  sunlight,  cupped  in  a  paint  brush, 

And  smear  the  red  of  peonies 

Over  my  garden. 

Splash  blue  upon  it, 

The  hard  blue  of  Canterbury  bells, 

Paling  through  larkspur 

Into  heliotrope, 

To  wash  away  among  forget-me-nots. 

Dip  red  again  to  mix  a  purple, 

And  lay  on  pointed  flares  of  lilacs  against  bright  green. 

Streak  yellow  for  nasturtiums  and  marsh  marigolds 

And  flame  it  up  to  orange  for  my  lilies. 

Now  dot  it  so  —  and  so  —  along  an  edge 

Of  Iceland  poppies. 

Swirl  it  a  bit,  and  faintly, 


PICTURES  OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  129 

That  is  honeysuckle. 

Now  put  a  band  of  brutal,  bleeding  crimson 

And  tail  it  off  to  pink,  to  give  the  roses. 

And  while  you're  loaded  up  with  pink, 

Just  blotch  about  that  bed  of  phlox. 

Fill  up  with  cobalt  and  dash  in  a  sky 

As  hot  and  heavy  as  you  can  make  it ; 

Then  tree-green  pulled  up  into  that 

Gives  a  fine  jolt  of  colour. 

Strain  it  out, 

And  melt  your  twigs  into  the  cobalt  sky. 

Toss  on  some  Chinese  white  to  flash  the  clouds, 

And  trust  the  sunlight  you've  got  in  your  paint. 

There  is  the  picture. 


130  PICTURES  OF   THE  FLOATING   WORLD 

A  BATHER 

After  a  Picture  by  Andreas  Zorn 

THICK  dappled  by  circles  of  sunshine  and  fluttering 

shade, 
Your  bright,  naked  body  advances,  blown  over  by 

leaves, 
Half-quenched  in  their  various  green,  just  a  point 

of  you  showing, 
A  knee  or  a  thigh,  sudden  glimpsed,  then  at  once 

blotted  into 

The  filmy  and  flickering  forest,  to  start  out  again 
Triumphant    in    smooth,    supple    roundness,    edged 

sharp  as  white  ivory, 
Cool,  perfect,  with  rose  rarely  tinting  your  lips  and 

your  breasts, 

Swelling  out  from  the  green  in  the  opulent  curves  of 
v  ripe  fruit, 


PICTURES  OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  131 

And  hidden,  like  fruit,  by  the  swift  intermittence  of 
leaves. 

So,  clinging  to  branches  and  moss,  you  advance  on 
the  ledges 

Of  rock  which  hang  over  the  stream,  with  the  wood- 
smells  about  you, 

The  pungence  of  strawberry  plants,  and  of  gum- 
oozing  spruces, 

While  below  runs  the  water,  impatient,  impatient  — 
to  take  you, 

To  splash  you,  to  run  down  your  sides,  to  sing  you  of 
deepness, 

Of  pools  brown  and  golden,  with  brown-and-gold 
flags  on  their  borders, 

Of  blue,  lingering  skies  floating  solemnly  over  your 
beauty, 

Of  undulant  waters  a-sway  in  the  effort  to  hold  you, 

To  keep  you  submerged  and  quiescent  while  over  you 
glories 


132  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

The  Summer. 

Oread,  Dryad,  or  Naiad,  or  just 
Woman,  clad  only  in  youth  and  in  gallant  perfection, 
Standing  up  in  a  great  burst  of  sunshine,  you  dazzle 

my  eyes 
Like  a  snow-star,  a  moon,  your  effulgence  burns  up 

in  a  halo, 
For  you  are  the  chalice  which  holds  all  the  races  of 

men. 

You  slip  into  the  pool  and  the  water  folds  over  your 

shoulder, 
And  over  the  tree-tops  the  clouds  slowly  follow  your 

swimming, 
And  the  scent  of  the  woods  is  sweet  on  this  hot 

Summer  morning. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  133 

DOG-DAYS 

A  LADDER  sticking  up  at  the  open  window, 
The  top  of  an  old  ladder ; 
And  all  of  Summer  is  there. 

Great  waves  and  tufts  of  wistaria  surge  across  the 

window, 

And  a  thin,  belated  blossom 
Jerk?  up  and  down  in  the  sunlight ; 
Purple  translucence  against  the  blue  sky. 
"Tie  back  this  branch,"  I  say, 
But  my  hands  are  sticky  with  leaves, 
And  my  nostrils  widen  to  the  smell  of  crushed  green. 
The  ladder  moves  uneasily  at  the  open  window, 
And  I  call  to  the  man  beneath, 
"Tie  back  that  branch." 

There  is  a  ladder  leaning  against  the  window-sill, 
And  a  mutter  of  thunder  in  the  air. 


134  PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING   WORLD 


AUGUST 

LATE  AFTERNOON 

SMOKE-COLOUR,  rose,  saffron, 

With  a  hard  edge  chipping  the  blue  sky, 

A  great  cloud  hung  over  the  village, 

And  the  white-painted  meeting-house, 

And  the  steeple  with  the  gilded  weather-cock 

Heading  and  flashing  to  the  wind. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING  WORLD  135 


HILLY  COUNTRY 

JANGLE  of  cow-bells  through  pine-trees. 
Grasshoppers  leaping  up  out  of  the  grass. 
The  mountain  is  bloomed  like  a  grape 
(Silver,  hazing  over  purple), 
It  blocks  into  the  sky  like  a  shadow. 
The  South  wind  blows  intermittently, 
And  the  clanking  of  the  cow-bells  comes  up  the  hill 
in  gusts. 


l33  PICTURES    OF   THE    FLOATING   WORLD 


TREES  IN  WINTER 

PINE-TBEES  : 

Black  clouds  slowly  swaying 
Over  a  white  earth. 

HEMLOCKS  : 

Coned  green  shadows 
Through  a  falling  veil. 

ELM-TREES  : 

Stiff  black  threads 
Lacing  over  silver. 

CEDARS: 

Layered  undulations 
Roofing  naked  ground. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  137 

ALMONDS  : 

Flaring  needles 
Stabbing  at  a  grey  sky. 

WEEPING  CHERRIES: 
Tossing  smoke 
Swept  down  by  wind. 

OAKS: 

Twisted  beams 
Cased  in  alabaster. 


138  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


SEA  COAL 

SWIFT  like  the  tongues  of  lilies, 

Striped  Amaryllis 

Thrusting  out  of  cloven  basalt. 

Amber  and  chalcedony, 

And  the  snapping  of  sand 

On  rocks 

Glazed  by  the  wind. 


PICTUKES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  139 

DOLPHINS  IN  BLUE  WATER 

HEY  !    Crackerjack  —  jump ! 

Blue  water, 

Pink  water, 

Swirl,  flick,  flitter; 

Snout  into  a  wave-trough, 

Plunge,  curl. 

Bow  over, 

Under, 

Razor-cut  and  tumble. 

Roll,  turn  — 

Straight  —  and  shoot  at  the  sky, 

All  rose-flame  drippings. 

Down  ring, 

Drop, 

Nose  under, 

Hoop, 


140  PICTUKES    OF   THE   FLOATING    WORLD 

Tail, 
Dive, 

And  gone ; 

With  smooth  over-swirlings  of  blue  water, 

Oil-smooth  cobalt, 

Slipping,  liquid  lapis  lazuli, 

Emerald  shadings, 

Tintings  of  pink  and  ochre. 

Prismatic  slidings 

Underneath  a  windy  sky. 


PICTURES   OP  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  141 

MOTOR  LIGHTS  ON  A  HILL  ROAD 

YELLOW-GREEN,  yellow-green,  yellow-green  and  silver, 

Rimpte  of  leaves, 

Blowing, 

Passing, 

Flowing  overhead, 

Arched  leaves, 

Silver  of  twisted  leaves ; 

Fan-like  yellow  glare 

On  tree-trunks. 

Fluted  side  wake 

Breaking  from  one  polished  stem  to  another. 

Swift  drop  on  a  disappearing  road, 

Jolt  —  a  wooden  bridge, 

And  a  flat  sky  opens  in  front. 

Above  — 

The  wide  sky  careers  furiously  past  a  still  moon. 


142  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Suddenly  —  Slap  !  —  green,  yellow, 

Leaves  and  no  moon. 

Ribbed  leaves, 

Chamfered  light  patterns 

Playing  on  a  pleaching  of  leaves. 

Wind,    ,. 

Strong,  rushing, 

Continuous,  like  the  leaves. 

Wind  sliding  beside  us, 

Meeting  us, 

Pointing  against  us  through  a  yellow-green  tunnel. 

Dot  .  .  .    Dot  .  .  .    Dot  .  .  . 

Little  square  lights  of  windows, 

Black  walls  stamping  into  silver  mist, 

Shingle  roofs  aflame  like  mica. 

Elliptical  cutting  curve 

Round  a  piazza  where  rocking-chairs  creak  emptily. 

Square  white  fences 

Chequer-boarding  backwards. 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD  143 

Plunge  at  a  black  hill, 

Flash  into  water-waving  fluctuations. 

Leaves  gush  out  of  the  darkness 

And  boil  past  in  yellow-green  curds : 

We  slip  between  them  with  the  smoothness  cf  oil.  ! 

Hooped  yellow  light  spars 

Banding  green 

Glide  toward  us, 

Impinge  upon  our  progress, 

Open  and  let  us  through. 

Liquid  leaves  lap  the  wheels, 

Toss, 

Splash, 

Disappear. 

Green  and  yellow  water-slopes  hang  over  us, 

Close  behind  us, 

Push  us  forward. 

We  are  the  centre  of  a  green  and  yellow  bubble, 

Changing, 


144  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Expanding, 

Skimming  over  the  face  of  the  world  — 

Green  and  yellow,  occasionally  tinged  with  silver. 


AS  TOWARD  ONE'S  SELF 


IN  A  TIME  OF  DEARTH 

BEFORE  me, 

On  either  side  of  me, 

I  see  sand. 

If  I  turn  the  corner  of  my  house 

I  see  sand. 

Long  —  brown  — 

Lines  and  levels  of  flat 

Sand. 

If  I  could  see  a  caravan 

Heave  over  the  edge  of  it : 

The  camels  wobbling  and  swaying, 

Stepping  like  ostriches, 

With  rocking  palanquins 

Whose  curtains  conceal 

Languors  and  faintnesses, 


148  PICTURES   OP  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Muslins  tossed  aside, 

And  a  disorder  of  cushions. 

The  swinging  curtains  would  pique  and  solace  me. 

But  I  only  see  sand, 

Long,  brown  sand, 

Sand. 

If  I  could  see  a  herd  of  Arab  horses 

Galloping, 

Their  manes  and  tails  pulled  straight 

By  the  speed  of  their  going ; 

Their  bodies  sleek  and  round 

Like  bellying  sails. 

They  would  beat  the  sand  with  their  fore-feet, 

And  scatter  it  with  their  hind-feet, 

So  that  it  whirled  in  a  cloud  of  orange, 

And  the  sun  through  it 

Was  clip-edged,  without  rays  —  and 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  149 

But  I  only  see  sand, 
Long,  brown,  hot  sand, 
Sand. 

If  I  could  see  a  mirage 

Blue- white  at  the  horizon, 

With  palm-trees  about  it ; 

Tall,  windless  palm-trees,  grouped  about  a  glitter. 

If  I  could  strain  towards  it, 

And  think  of  the  water  creeping  round  my  ankles, 

Tickling  under  my  knees, 

Leeching  up  my  sides, 

Spreading  over  my  back ! 

But  I  only  feel  the  grinding  beneath  my  feet . 

And  I  only  see  sand, 

Long,  dry  sand, 

Scorching  sand, 

Sand. 


150  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

If  a  sand-storm  would  come 

And  spit  against  my  windows, 

Snapping  upon  them,  and  ringing  their  vibrations ; 

Swirling  over  the  roof, 

Seeping  under  the  door-jamb, 

Suffocating  me  and  making  me  struggle  for  air. 

But  I  only  see  sand, 

Sand  lying  dead  in  the  sun, 

Lines  and  lines  of  sand, 

Sand. 

I  will  paste  newspapers  over  the  windows  to  shut  out 

the  sand, 
I  will  fit  them  into  one  another,  and  fasten  the 

corners. 

Then  I  will  strike  matches 
And  read  of  politics,  and  murders,  and  festivals, 
Three  years  old. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  151 

But  I  shall  not  see  the  sand  any  more 

And  I  can  read 

While  my  matches  last. 


152  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


ALIENS 

THE  chatter  of  little  people 

Breaks  on  my  purpose 

Like  the  water-drops  which  slowly  wear  the  rocks  to 

powder. 

And  while  I  laugh 
My  spirit  crumbles  at  their  teasing  touch. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  153 


MIDDLE  AGE 

LIKE  black  ice 

Scrolled  over  with  unintelligible  patterns 

by  an  ignorant  skater 
Is  the  dulled  surface  of  my  heart. 


154  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

LA  VIE  DE  BOHEME 

ALONE,  I  whet  my  soul  against  the  keen 

Unwrinkled  sky,  with  its  long  stretching  blue. 

I  polish  it  with  sunlight  and  pale  dew, 

And  damascene  it  with  young  blowing  leaves. 

Into  the  handle  of  my  life  I  set 

Sprays  of  mignonette 

And  periwinkle, 

Twisted  into  sheaves. 

The  colours  laugh  and  twinkle. 

Twined  bands  of  roadways,  liquid  in  the  sheen 

Of  street  lamps  and  the  ruby  shine  of  cabs, 

Glisten  for  my  delight  all  down  its  length ; 

And  there  are  sudden  sparks 

Of  morning  ripplings  over  tree-fluttered  pools. 

My  soul  is  fretted  full  of  gleams  and  darks, 

Pulsing  and  still. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  155 

Smooth-edged,  untarnished,  girded  in  my  soul 
I  walk  the  world. 

But  in  its  narrow  alleys, 

The  low-hung,  dust-thick  valleys 

Where  the  inob  shuffles  its  empty  tread, 

My  soul  is  blunted  against  dullard  wits, 

Smeared  with  sick  juices, 

Nicked  impotent  for  other  than  low  uses. 

Its  arabesques  and  sparkling  subtleties 

Crusted  to  grey,  and  all  its  changing  surfaces 

Spread  with  unpalpitant  monotonies. 

I  re-create  myself  upon  the  polished  sky : 
A  honing-strop  above  converging  roofs. 
The  patterns  show  again,  like  buried  proofs 
Of  old,  lost  empires  bursting  on  the  eye 
In  hieroglyphed  and  graven  splendour. 


156  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

The  whirling  winds  brush  past  my  head, 
And  prodigal  once  more,  a  reckless  spender 
Of  disregarded  beauty,  a  defender 
Of  undesired  faiths, 
I  walk  the  world. 


PICTUEES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  157 


FLAME  APPLES 

LITTLE  hot  apples  of  fire, 

Burst  out  of  the  flaming  stem 

Of  my  heart, 

I  do  not  understand  how  you  quickened  and  grew, 

And  you  amaze  me 

While  I  gather  you. 

I  lay  you,  one  by  one, 

Upon  a  table. 

And  now  you  seem  beautiful  and  strange  to  me, 

And  I  stand  before  you, 

Wondering. 


158  PICTURES   OF   THE  FLOATING   WORLD 


THE  TRAVELLING  BEAR 

GRASS-BLADES  push  up  between  the  cobblestones 

And  catch  the  sun  on  their  flat  sides 

Shooting  it  back, 

Gold  and  emerald, 

Into  the  eyes  of  passers-by. 

And  over  the  cobblestones, 

Square-footed  and  heavy, 

Dances  the  trained  bear. 

The  cobbles  cut  his  feet, 

And  he  has  a  ring  in  his  nose 

Which  hurts  him ; 

But  still  he  dances, 

For  the  keeper  pricks  him  with  a  sharp  stick, 

Under  his  fur. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  159 

Now  the  crowd  gapes  and  chuckles, 

And  boys  and  young  women  shuffle  their  feet  in  time 

to  the  dancing  bear. 
They  see  him  wobbling 
Against  a  dust  of  emerald  and  gold, 
And  they  are  greatly  delighted. 

The  legs  of  the  bear  shake  with  fatigue, 

And  his  back  aches, 

And  the  shining  grass-blades  dazzle  and  confuse  him. 

But  still  he  dances, 

Because  of  the  little,  pointed  stick. 


160  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

MERCHANDISE 

I  MADE  a  song  one  morning, 

Sitting  in  the  shade  under  the  hornbeam  hedge. 

I  played  it  on  my  pipe, 

And  the  clear  notes  delighted  me, 

And  the  little  hedge-sparrows  and  the  chipmunks 

Also  seemed  pleased. 

So  I  was  very  proud 

That  I  had  made  so  good  a  song. 

Would  you  like  to  hear  my  song  ? 

I  will  play  it  to  you 

As  I  did  that  evening  to  my  Beloved, 

Standing  on  the  moon-bright  cobbles 

Underneath  her  window. 

But  you  are  not  my  Beloved, 

You  must  give  me  a  silver  shilling, 


*  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  161 

Round  and  glittering  like  the  moon. 

Copper  I  will  not  take, 

How  should  copper  pay  for  a  song 

All  made  out  of  nothing, 

And  so  beautiful ! 


162  PICTURES   OF  THE    FLOATING  WORLD 


THE  POEM 

IT  is  only  a  little  twig 

With  a  green  bud  at  the  end ; 

But  if  you  plant  it, 

And  water  it, 

And  set  it  where  the  sun  will  be  above  it, 

It  will  grow  into  a  tall  bush 

With  many  flowers, 

And  leaves  which  thrust  hither  and  thither 

Sparkling. 

From  its  roots  will  come  freshness, 

And  beneath  it  the  grass-blades 

Will  bend  and  recover  themselves, 

And  clash  one  upon  another 

In  the  blowing  wind. 

But  if  you  take  my  twig 
And  throw  it  into  a  closet 


PICTURES   OF    THE   FLOATING   WORLD  163 

With  mousetraps  and  blunted  tools, 

It  will  shrivel  and  waste. 

And,  some  day, 

When  you  open  the  door, 

You  will  think  it  an  old  twisted  nail, 

And  sweep  it  into  the  dust  bin 

With  other  rubbish. 


164  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 


THE  PEDDLER  OF  FLOWERS 

'I  CAME  from  the  country 

With  flowers, 

Larkspur  and  roses, 

Fretted  lilies 

In  their  leaves, 

And  long,  cool  lavender. 

I  carried  them 

From  house  to  house, 

And  cried  them 

Down  hot  streets. 

The  sun  fell 

Upon  my  flowers, 

And  the  dust  of  the  streets 

Blew  over  my  basket. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING  WORLD  165 

That  night 

x 

I  slept  upon  the  open  seats 

Of  a  circus, 

Where  all  day  long 

People  had  watched 

The  antics 

Of  a  painted  clown. 


166  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 


BALLS 

THROW  the  blue  ball  above  the  little  twigs  of  the 

tree-tops, 
And  cast  the  yellow  ball  straight  at  the  buzzing  stars. 

All  our  life  is  a  flinging  of  coloured  balls 

to  impossible  distances. 

And  in  the  end  what  have  we  ? 

A  tired  arm  —  a  tip-tilted  nose. 

Ah !    Well !    Give  me  the  purple  one. 

Wouldn't  it  be  a  fine  thing  if  I  could  make  it  stick 

On  top  of  the  Methodist  steeple  ? 


PICTURES   OF   THE    FLOATING    WORLD  167 

THE  FANATIC 

LIKE  Don  Quixote,  I  tilted  at  a  windmill. 

On  my  good,  grey  horse  I  spurred  at  it, 

Galloping  heavily  over  the  plain. 

My  lance  pierced  the  framework  of  a  sail  and  stuck 

there, 
And  the  impact  sent  me  sprawling  on  the  ground. 

My  horse  wandered  away,  cropping, 

But  I  started  up  and  fell  upon  the  windmill, 

With  my  dagger  unsheathed. 

Valiantly  I  stabbed  a  dipping  sail, 

But  it  rose  before  I  could  withdraw  the  weapon, 

And  the  blade  went  up  with  it,  gleaming  —  flickering. 

Then  I  drew  a  pistol, 

For  I  am  an  up-to-date  knight 


1G8  PICTURES  OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

And  my  armory  unrivalled. 

I  aimed  above  me, 

At  the  sky  between  two  sails. 

Ping !  went  the  bullet, 

And  a  round,  blue  eye  peeked  at  me  through    the 

wheeling  sail. 
I  fired  again  — 
Two  eyes  winked  at  me,  jeering. 

Then  I  ran  at  the  windmill  with  my  fists, 

But  it  struck  me  down  and  left  me. 

All  night  I  lay  there, 

And  the  great  sails  turned  about  and  about, 

And  brushed  me  with  their  shadows, 

For  there  was  a  moon. 


PICTURES   OF   THE  FLOATING   WORLD  169 


FIREWORKS 

You  hate  me  and  I  hate  you, 
And  we  are  so  polite,  we  two ! 

But  whenever  I  see  you,  I  burst  apart 
And  scatter  the  sky  with  my  blazing  hearto 
It  spits  and  sparkles  in  stars  and  balls, 
Buds  into  roses  —  and  flares,  and  falls* 

Scarlet  buttons,  and  pale  green  disks, 
Silver  spirals  and  asterisks, 
Shoot  and  tremble  in  a  mist 
Peppered  with  mauve  and  amethyst. 

I  shine  in  the  windows  and  light  up  the  trees, 
And  all  because  I  hate  you,  if  you  please. 


170  PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

And  when  you  meet  me,  you  rend  asunder 
And  go  up  in  a  flaming  wonder 
Of  saffron  cubes,  and  crimson  moons, 
And  wheels  all  amaranths  and  maroons. 

Golden  lozenges  and  spades, 

Arrows  of  malachites  and  jades, 

Patens  of  copper,  azure  sheaves. 

As  you  mount,  you  flash  in  the  glossy  leaves. 

Such  fireworks  as  we  make,  we  two ! 
Because  you  hate  me  and  I  hate  you. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  171 

TRADES 

I  WANT  to  be  a  carpenter, 

To  work  all  day  long  in  clean  wood, 

Shaving  it  into  little  thin  slivers 

Which  screw  up  into  curls  behind  my  plane ; 

Pounding  square,  black  nails  into  white  boards, 

With  the  claws  of  my  hammer  glistening 

Like  the  tongue  of  a  snake. 

I  want  to  shingle  a  house, 

Sitting  on  the  ridge-pole  in  a  bright  breeze. 

I  want  to  put  the  shingles  on  neatly, 

Taking  great  care  that  each  is  directly  between  two 

others. 

I  want  my  hands  to  have  the  tang  of  wood : 
Spruce,  Cedar,  Cypress. 

I  want  to  draw  a  line  on  a  board  with  a  flat  pencil, 
And  then  saw  along  that  line, 


172  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

With   the   sweet-smelling    sawdust    piling   up   in   a 
yellow  heap  at  my  feet. 

That  is  the  life ! 

Heigh-ho ! 

It  is  much  easier  than  to  write  this  poem. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  173 


GENERATIONS 

You  are  like  the  stem 

Of  a  young  beech-tree, 

Straight  and  swaying, 

Breaking  out  in  golden  leaves. 

Your  walk  is  like  the  blowing  of  a  beech-tree 

On  a  hill. 

Your  voice  is  like  leaves 

Softly  struck  upon  by  a  South  wind. 

Your  shadow  is  no  shadow,  but  a  scattered  sunshine ; 

And  at  night  you  pull  the  sky  down  to  you 

And  hood  yourself  in  stars. 


But  I  am  like  a  great  oak  under  a  cloudy  sky, 

\ 
Watching  a  stripling  beech  grow  up  at  my  feet. 


174      PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

ENTENTE  CORDIALE 

THE  young  gentleman  from  the  foreign  nation 

Sat  on  the  sofa  and  smiled. 

He  stayed  for  two  hours  and  I  talked  to  him. 

He  answered  agreeably, 

He  was  very  precise,  very  graceful,  very  enthusiastic 

I  thought : 

Is  it  possible  that  there  are  no  nations,  only  indi 
viduals  ? 

That  it  is  the  few  who  give  gold  and  flowers, 

While  the  many  have  only  copper 

So  worn  that  even  the  stamp  is  obliterated  ? 

I  talked  to  the  young  gentleman  from  the  foreign 
nation, 

And  the  faint  smell  of  copper  assailed  my  nostrils : 

Copper, 

Twisted  copper  coins  dropped  by  old  women 

Into  the  alms-boxes  of  venerable  churches. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  175 

CASTLES  IN  SPAIN 

I  BUILD  my  poems  with  little  strokes  of  ink 

Drawn  shining  down  white  paper,  line  and  line, 
And  there  is  nothing  here  which  men  call  fine, 

Nothing  but  hieroglyphs  to  make  them  think. 

I  have  no  broad  and  blowing  plain  to  link 
And  loop  with  aqueducts,  no  golden  mine 
To  crest  my  pillars,  no  bright  twisted  vine 

Which  I  can  train  about  a  fountain's  brink. 

Those  others  laced  their  poems  from  sea  to  sea 
And  floated  navies  over  fields  of  grain, 

They  fretted  their  full  fancies  in  strong  stone 
And  struck  them  on  the  sky.     And  yet  I  gain ; 

For  bombs  and  bullets  cannot  menace  me, 

Who  have  no  substance  to  be  overthrown. 

Cathedrals  crash  to  rubbish,  but  my  towers, 

Carved  in  the  whirling  and  enduring  brain, 

| 
Fade,  and  persist,  and  rise  again,  like  flowers. 


PLUMMETS  TO  CIRCUMSTANCE 


ELY  CATHEDRAL 

ANAEMIC  women,  stupidly  dressed  and  shod 

In  squeaky  shoes,  thump  down  the  nave  to  laud  an 

expurgated  God. 

Bunches  of  lights  reflect  upon  the  pavement  where 
The  twenty  benches  stop,  and   through  the  close, 

smelled-over  air 

Gaunt  arches  push  up  their  whited  stones, 
And  cover  the  sparse  worshippers  with  dead  men's 

bones. 

Behind  his  shambling  choristers,  with  flattened  feet 
And  red-flapped  hood,  the  Bishop  walks,  complete 
In  old,  frayed  ceremonial.     The  organ  wheezes 
A  mouldy  psalm-tune,  and  a  verger  sneezes. 


180  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

But  the  great  Cathedral  spears  into  the  sky 
Shouting  for  joy. 

What  is  the  red-flapped  Bishop  praying  for, 
by  the  by? 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  181 


WILLIAM  BLAKE 

,  HE  said  he  saw  the  spangled  wings  of  angels 
In  a  tree  at  Peckham  Rye, 
And  Elija  walking  in  the  haying-fields ; 
So  they  beat  him  for  his  lies, 
And  'prenticed  him  to  an  engraver. 
Now  his  books  sell  for  broad,  round,  golden  guineas. 
That's  a  bouncing  turn  of  Fortune ! 
But  we  have  the  guineas, 
Since  our  fathers  were  thrifty  men 
And  knew  the  value  of  gold. 


182  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING  WORLD 


AN  INCIDENT 

WILLIAM  BLAKE  and  Catherine  Bourchier  were 
married  in  the  newly  rebuilt  Church  of  Batter- 
sea  where  the  windows  were  beautifully  painted 
to  imitate  real  stained  glass. 

Pigments  or  crystal,  what  did  it  matter  —  when 
Jehovah  sat  on  a  cloud  of  curled  fire  over  the 
door-way, 

And  angels  with  silver  trumpets  played  Hosannas 
under  the  wooden  groins  of  the  peaked  roof ! 

William  and  Catherine  Blake  left  the  painted  windows 
behind  in  the  newly  rebuilt  Church  of  Battersea, 

But  God  and  the  angels  went  out  with  them ; 

And  the  angels  played  on  their  trumpets  under  the 
plaster  ceiling  of  their  lodging, 


PICTURES   OF    THE   FLOATING   WORLD  183 

Morning,  and  evening,  and  morning,  forty-five  round 
years. 

Has  the  paint  faded  in  the  windows  of  Battersea 
Church,  I  wonder  ? 


184  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

PEACH-COLOUR  TO  A  SOAP-BUBBLE 

A  MAN  made  a  symphony 

Out  of  the  chords  of  his  soul. 

The  notes  ran  upon  the  air  like  flights  of  chickadees, 

They  gathered  together  and  hung 

As  bees  above  a  syringa  bush, 

They  crowded  and  clicked  upon  one  another 

In  a  flurry  of  progression, 

And  crashed  in  the  simultaneous  magnificence 

Of  a  grand  finale. 

All  this  he  heard, 

But  the  neighbors  heard  only  the  croak 

Of  a  wheezy,  second-hand  flageolet. 

Forced  to  seek  another  lodging 
He  took  refuge  under  the  arch  of  a  bridge, 
For  the  river  below  him  might  be  convenient 
Some  day. 


PICTUKES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  185 


PYROTECHNICS 

I 

OUR  meeting  was  like  the  upward  swish  of  a  rocket 
In  the  blue  night. 
I  do  not  know  when  it  burst ; 
But  now  I  stand  gaping, 
In  a  glory  of  falling  stars. 

n 

Hola!  Hola!  shouts  the  crowd,  as  the  catharine- 
wheels  sputter  and  turn. 

Hola!    They  cheer  the  flower-pots  and  set  pieces. 

And  nobody  heeds  the  cries  of  a  young  man  in  shirt 
sleeves, 

Who  has  burnt  his  fingers  setting  them  off. 


186  PICTURES    OF   THE    FLOATING   WORLD 

m 

A  King  and  Queen,  and  a  couple  of  Generals, 

Flame  in  coloured  lights, 

Putting  out  the  stars, 

And  making  a  great  glare  over  the  people  wandering 

among  the  booths. 

They  are  very  beautiful  and  impressive, 
And  all  the  people  say  "Ah !" 
By  and  by  they  begin  to  go  out, 
Little  by  little. 

The  King's  crown  goes  first,    ; 
Then  his  eyes, 
Then  his  nose  and  chin. 
The  Queen  goes  out  from  the  bottom  up, 
Until  only  the  topmost  jewel  of  her  tiara  is  left. 
Then  that  too  goes ; 

And  there  is  nothing  but  a  frame  of  twisted  wires, 
With  the  stars  twinkling  through  it. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  187 

THE  BOOKSHOP 

PIERROT  had  grown  old. 

He  wore  spectacles 

And  kept  a  shop. 

Opium  and  hellebore 

He  sold 

Between  the  covers  of  books, 

And  perfumes  distilled  from  the  veins  of  old  ivory, 

And  poisons  drawn  from  lotus  seeds  one  hundred  years 

withered 

And  thinned  to  the  translucence  of  alabaster. 
He  sang  a  pale  song  of  repeated  cadenzas 
In  a  voice  cold  as  flutes 
And  shrill  as  desiccated  violins. 

I  stood  before  the  shop, 

Fingering    the    comfortable    vellum    of    an    ancient 
volume, 


188  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Turning  over  its  leaves, 
And  the  dead  moon  looked  over  my  shoulder 
And  fell  with  a  green  smoothness  upon  the  page. 
I  read : 

"I  am  the  Lord  thy  God,  thou  shalt  have  none  other 
gods  but  me." 

Through  the  door  came  a  chuckle  of  laughter 
Like  the  tapping  of  unstrung  kettledrums, 
For  Pierrot  had  ceased  singing  for  a  moment 
To  watch  me  reading. 


1  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  189 

GARGOYLES 

A  COMEDY  OF  OPPOSITIONS 

THIMBLE-RIG  on  a  village  green, 

Snake-charmers  under  a  blue  tent 

Winding  drugged  sausage-bellies  through  thin  arms. 

Hiss 

Of  a  yellow  and  magenta  shawl 

On  a  platform 

Above  trombones. 

Tree  lights 

Drip  cockatoos  of  colour 

On  broadest  shoulders, 

Dead  eyes  swim  to  a  silver  fish. 

Gluttonous  hands  tear  at  apron  strings, 

Reach  at  the  red  side  of  an  apple, 

Slide  under  ice-floes, 


190  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

And  waltz  clear  through  to  the  tropics 
To  sit  among  cocoanuts 

And  caress  bulbous  negresses  with  loquats  in   their 
hair. 

A  violin  scorching  on  an  F-sharp  exit. 

Stamp. 

Stop. 

Hayricks,  and  panting, 

Noon  roses  guessed  under  calico  — 

A  budded  thorn-bush  swinging 

Against  a  smoke-dawn. 

Hot  pressing  on  sweet  straw, 

Laughs  like  whales  floundering  across  air  circles, 

Wallows  of  smoothness, 

Loose  muscles  dissolved  upon  lip-brushings, 

Languid  fluctuations, 

Sleep  oozing  over  wet  flesh, 

Cooling  under  the  broad  end  of  an  angled  shadow. 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  191 

Absurd  side-wiggle  of  geese  before  elephants ; 
A  gold  leopard  snarls  at  a  white-nosed  donkey ; 
Panther-purrs     rouse     childhood     to     an     edge     of 

contortion ; 
Trumpets    brawl    beneath    an    oscillation    of    green 

balloons. 

Why  blow  apple-blossoms  into  wind-dust  ? 
Why  drop  a  butterfly  down  the  throat  of  a  pig  ? 
Timid  shrinkings  of  a  scarlet-runner  bean 
From  pumpkin  roughnesses. 
Preposterous  clamour  of  a  cock  for  a  tulip. 
If  your  flesh  is  cold 
Warm  it  on  tea-pots 
And  let  them  be  of  Dresden  china 
With  a  coreopsis  snarled  in  the  handle. 
Horse-bargainings  do  not  become  temples, 
And  sarabands  are  not  danced  on  tea-trays  of  German 
silver. 


192  PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

Thin  drums  flatten  the  uprightness  of  distance, 

A  fading  of  drums  shows  lilac  on  the  fallen  beech 

leaves. 

Emptiness  of  drums. 
Nothing. 

Burr  of  a  rising  moon. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  193 


TO  WINKY 

CAT, 

Cat, 

What  are  you  ? 

Son,  through  a  thousand  generations,  of  the  black 

leopards 

Padding  among  the  sprigs  of  young  bamboo ; 
Descendant  of  many  removals  from  the  white  panthers 
Who  crouch  by  night  under  the  loquat-trees  ? 
You  crouch  under  the  orange  begonias, 
And  your  eyes  are  green 
With  the  violence  of  murder, 
Or  half-closed  and  stealthy 
Like  your  sheathed  claws. 
Slowly,  slowly, 
You  rise  and  stretch 


194  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

In  a  glossiness  of  beautiful  curves, 

Of  muscles  fluctuating  under  black,  glazed  hair. 

Cat, 

You  are  a  strange  creature. 

You  sit  on  your  haunches 

And  yawn, 

But  when  you  leap 

I  can  almost  hear  the  whine 

Of  a  released  string, 

And  I  look  to  see  its  flaccid  shaking 

In  the  place  whence  you  sprang. 

You  carry  your  tail  as  a  banner, 

Slowly  it  passes  my  chair, 

But  when  I  look  for  you,  you  are  on  the  table 

Moving  easily  among  the  most  delicate  porcelains. 

Your  food  is  a  matter  of  importance 

And  you  are  insistent  on  having 


PICTURES    OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  195 

Your  wants  attended  to, 

And  yet  you  will  eat  a  bird  and  its  feathers 

Apparently  without  injury. 

In  the  night,  I  hear  you  crying, 

But  if  I  try  to  find  you 

There  are  only  the  shadows  of  rhododendron  leaves 

Brushing  the  ground. 

When  you  come  in  out  of  the  rain, 

All  wet  and  with  your  tail  full  of  burrs, 

You  fawn  upon  me  in  coils  and  subtleties ; 

But  once  you  are  dry 

You    leave    me    with    a    gesture    of    inconceivable 

impudence, 

Conveyed  by  the  vanishing  quirk  of  your  tail 
As  you  slide  through  the  open  door. 

You  walk  as  a  king  scorning  his  subjects ; 

You  flirt  with  me  as  a  concubine  in  robes  of  silk. 


196  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

Cat, 

I  am  afraid  of  your  poisonous  beauty ; 

I  have  seen  you  torturing  a  mouse. 

Yet  when  you  lie  purring  in  my  lap 

I  forget  everything  but  how  soft  you  are, 

And  it  is  only  when  I  feel  your  claws  open  upon  my 

hand 

That  I  remember  — 
Remember  a  puma  lying  out  on  a  branch  above  my 

head 
Years  ago. 

Shall  I  choke  you,  Cat, 

Or  kiss  you  ? 

Really  I  do  not  know. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  197 

CHOPIN 

THE  cat  and  I 

Together  in  the  sultry  night 

Waited. 

He  greatly  desired  a  mouse ; 

I,  an  idea. 

Neither  ambition  was  gratified. 

So  we  watched 

In  a  stiff  and  painful  expectation. 

Little  breezes  pattered  among  the  trees, 

And  thin  stars  ticked  at  us 

Faintly, 

Exhausted  pulses 

Squeezing  through  mist. 

Those  others,  I  said ! 

And  my  mind  rang  hollow  as  I  tapped  it. 

Winky,  I  said, 


198  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Do  all  other  cats  catch  their  mice  ? 


It  was  low  and  long, 

Ivory  white,  with  doors  and  windows  blotting  blue 

upon  it. 

Wind  choked  in  pomegranate-trees, 
Rain  rattled  on  lead  roofs, 
And  stuttered  along  twisted  conduit-pipes. 
An  eagle  screamed  out  of  the  heavy  sky, 
And  some  one  in  the  house  screamed 
"Ah,  I  knew  that  you  were  dead !" 

So  that  was  it : 

Funeral  chants, 

And  the  icy  cowls  of  buried  monies ; 

Organs  on  iron  midnights, 

And  long  wax  winding-sheets 

Guttered  from  altar  candles. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  199 

First  this, 

Then  spitting  blood. 

Music  quenched  in  blood, 

Flights  of  arpeggios  confused  by  blood, 

Flute-showers  of  notes  stung  and  arrested  on  a  sharp 

chord, 

Tangled  in  a  web  of  blood. 
"I  cannot  send  you  the  manuscripts,  as  they  are  not 

yet  finished. 
I  have  been  ill  as  a  dog. 

My  illness  has  had  a  pernicious  effect  on  the  Preludes 
Which  you  will  receive  God  knows  when." 


He  bore  it. 

Therefore,  Winky,  drink  some  milk 

And  leave  the  mouse  until  to-morrow. 

There  are  no  blood-coloured  pomegranate  flowers 


200  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Hurling  their  petals  in  at  the  open  window, 

But  you  can  sit  in  my  lap 

And  blink  at  a  bunch  of  cinnamon-eyed  coreopsis 

While  I  pull  your  ears 

In  the  manner  which  you  find  so  infinitely  agreeable. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  201 

APPULDURCOMBE  PARK 

I  AM  a  woman,  sick  for  passion, 

Sitting  under  the  golden  beech-trees. 

I  am  a  woman,  sick  for  passion, 

Crumbling  the  beech  leaves  to  powder  in  my  fingers. 

The  servants  say:    "Yes,  my  Lady,"  and  "No,  my 

Lady." 

And  all  day  long  my  husband  calls  me 
From  his  invalid  chair : 

"Mary,  Mary,  where  are  you,  Mary?     I  want  you." 
Why  does  he  want  me  ? 
When  I  come,  he  only  pats  my  hand 
And  asks  me  to  settle  his  cushions. 
Poor  little  beech  leaves, 
Slowly  falling, 
Crumbling, 
In  the  great  park. 


202  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

But  there  are  many  golden  beech  leaves 
And  I  am  alone. 

I  am  a  woman,  sick  for  passion, 

Walking  between  rows  of  painted  tulips. 

Parrot  flowers,  toucan-feathered  flowers, 

How  bright  you  are ! 

You  hurt  me  with  your  colours, 

Your  reds  and  yellows  lance  at  me  like  flames. 

Oh,  I  am  sick  —  sick  — 

And  your  darting  loveliness  hurts  my  heart. 

You  burn  me  with  your  parrot-tongues. 

Flame ! 

Flame ! 

My  husband  taps  on  the  window  with  his  stick : 

"Mary,  come  in.     I  want  you.     You  will  take  cold." 

I  am  a  woman,  sick  for  passion, 

Gazing  at  a  white  moon  hanging  over  tall  lilies. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  203 

The  lilies  sway  and  darken, 

And  a  wind  ruffles  my  hair. 

There  is  a  scrape  of  gravel  behind  me, 

A  red  coat  crashes  scarlet  against  the  lilies. 

"  Cousin-Captain ! 

I  thought  you  were  playing  piquet  with  Sir  Kenelm.'9 

"Piquet,  Dear  Heart !    And  such  a  moon !" 

Your  red  coat  chokes  me,  Cousin-Captain. 

Blood-colour,  your  coat : 

I  am  sick  —  sick  —  for  your  heart. 

Keep  away  from  me,  Cousin-Captain. 

Your  scarlet  coat  dazzles  and  confuses  me. 

0  heart  of  red  blood,  what  shall  I  do ! 
Even  the  lilies  blow  for  the  bee. 

Does  your  heart  beat  so  loud,  Beloved  ? 
No,  it  is  the  tower-clock  chiming  eleven. 

N 

1  must  go  in  and  give  my  husband  his  posset. 
I  hear  him  calling  : 

"Mary,  where  are  you?    I  want  you." 


204  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

I  am  a  woman,  sick  for  passion, 

Waiting  in  the  long,  black  room  for  the  funeral  pro 
cession  to  pass. 

I  sent  a  messenger  to  town  last  night. 

When  will  you  come  ? 

Under  my  black  dress  a  rose  is  blooming. 

A  rose  ?  —  a  heart  ?  —  it  rustles  for  you  with  open 
petals. 

Come  quickly,  Dear, 

For  the  corridors  are  full  of  noises. 

In  this  fading  light  I  hear  whispers, 

And  the  steady,  stealthy  purr  of  the  wind. 

What  keeps  you,  Cousin-Captain?  .  .  . 

What  was  that? 

"Mary,  I  want  you." 

Nonsense,  he  is  dead, 

Buried  by  now. 

Oh,  I  am  sick  of  these  long,  cold  corridors ! 


f  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  205 

Sick  —  for  what  ? 
Why  do  you  not  come  ? 

I  am  a  woman,  sick  —  sick  — 

Sick  of  the  touch  of  cold  paper, 

Poisoned  with  the  bitterness  of  ink. 

Snowflakes  hiss,  and  scratch  the  windows. 

"Mary,  where  are  you?'* 

That  voice  is  like  water  in  my  ears ; 

I  cannot  empty  them. 

He  wanted  me,  my  husband, 

But  these  stone  parlours  do  not  want  me. 

You  do  not  want  me  either,  Cousin-Captain. 

Your  coat  lied, 

Only  your  white  sword  spoke  the  truth. 

"Mary!    Mary!" 

Will  nothing  stop  the  white  snow 

Sifting, 

Sifting? 


206  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

Will  nothing  stop  that  voice, 

Drifting  through  the  wide,  dark  halls  ? 

The   tower-clock   strikes  eleven   dully,   stifled  with 

snow. 

Softly  over  the  still  snow, 
Softly  over  the  lonely  park, 
Softly  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  have  only  my  slippers,  but  I  shall  not  tak< 

cold. 

A  little  dish  of  posset. 
Do  the  dead  eat  ? 
I  have  done  it  so  long, 
So  strangely  long. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  207 

THE  BROKEN  FOUNTAIN 

OBLONG,  its  jutted  ends  rounding  into  circles, 

The  old  sunken  basin  lies  with  its  flat,  marble  lip 

An  inch  below  the  terrace  tiles. 

Over  the  stagnant  water 

Slide  reflections : 

The  blue-green  of  coned  yews ; 

The  purple  and  red  of  trailing  fuchsias 

Dripping  out  of  marble  urns ; 

Bright  squares  of  sky 

Ribbed  by  the  wake  of  a  swimming  beetle. 

Through  the  blue-bronze  water 

Wavers  the  pale  uncertainty  of  a  shadow. 

An  arm  flashes  through  the  reflections, 

A  breast  is  outlined  with  leaves. 

Outstretched  in  the  quiet  water 

The  statue  of  a  Goddess  slumbers. 


208  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

But  when  Autumn  comes 

The  beech  leaves  cover  her  with  a  golden  counter 
pane. 


PICTUKES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  209 

THE  DUSTY  HOUR-GLASS 

IT  had  been  a  trim  garden, 

With  parterres  of  fringed  pinks  and  gillyflowers, 

and  smooth-raked  walks. 
Silks  and  satins  had  brushed  the  box  edges 

of  its  alleys. 
The  curved  stone  lips  of  its  fishponds 

had  held  the  rippled  reflections  of  tricorns  and 

powdered  periwigs. 
The  branches  of  its  trees  had  glittered  with  lanterns, 

and  swayed  to  the  music  of  flutes  and  violins. 

Now,  the  fishponds  are  green  with  scum ; 
The  paths  and  flower-beds 

are  run  together  and  overgrown. 
Only  at  one  end  is  an  octagonal  Summer-house 

not  yet  in  ruins. 


310  PICTURES   OP   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Through  the  lozenged  panes  of  its  windows, 

you  can  see  the  interior  : 
A  dusty  bench ;   a  fireplace 

with  a  lacing  of  letters  carved  in  the  stone 

above  it ; 
A  broken  ball  of  worsted 

rolled  away  into  a  comer. 

Dolci,  dolci,  i  giorni  passati  I 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  211 

THE  FLUTE 

"  STOP  !    What  are  you  doing  ?  " 
"Playing  on  an  old  flute." 
"  That's  Heine's  flute  —  you  mustn't  touch  it*'" 
"Why  not,  if  I  can  make  it  sound." 
"I  don't  know  why  not,  but  you  mustn't." 
"I  don't  believe  I  can  —  much.     It's  full  of  dust. 
Still,  listen : 

The  rose  moon  whitens  the  lifting  leaves. 

Heigh-o !     The  nightingale  sings ! 

Through  boughs  and  branches  the  moon-thread 

weaves. 
Ancient  as  time  are  these  midnight  things. 

The  nightingale's  notes  over-bubble  the  night. 
Heigh-o !    Yet  the  night  is  so  big  I 


212  PICTURES   OF   THE    FLOATING   WORLD 

He  stands  on  his  nest  in  a  wafer  of  light,  ' 
And  the  nest  was  once  a  philosopher's  wig. 

Moon-sharp  needles,  and  dew  on  the  grass. 
Heigh-o !    It  flickers,  the  breeze ! 
Kings,  philosophers,  periwigs  pass ; 
Nightingale  eggs  hatch  under  the  trees. 

Wigs,  and  pigs,  and  kings,  and  courts. 
Heigh-o !     Rain  on  the  flower ! 
The  old  moon  thinks  her  white,  bright  thoughts, 
And  trundles  away  before  the  shower. 

"Well,  you  got  it  to  play." 

"Yes,  a  little.    And  it  has  lovely  silver  mountings." 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  213 

FLOTSAM 

SHE  sat  in  a  Chinese  wicker  chair 

Wide  at  the  top  like  a  spread  peacock's  tail, 

And  toyed  with  a  young  man's  heart  which  she  held 
lightly  in  her  fingers. 

She  tapped  it  gently, 

Held  it  up  to  the  sun  and  looked  through  it, 

Strung  it  on  a  chain  of  seed-pearls  and  fastened  it 
about  her  neck, 

Tossed  it  into  the  air  and  caught  it, 

Deftly,  as  though  it  were  a  ball. 

Before  her  on  the  grass  sat  the  young  man. 

Sometimes  he  felt  an  ache  where  his  heart  had  been. 

But  he  brushed  it  aside. 

He  was  intent  on  gazing,  and  had  no  time  for  any 
thing  else. 

Presently  she  grew  tired  and  handed  him  back  his 
heart, 


214  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

But  he  only  laid  it  on  the  ground  beside  him 
And  went  on  gazing. 

When  the  maidservant  came  to  tidy  up, 

She  found  the  heart  on  the  grass. 

"What  a  pretty  thing,"  said  the  maidservant, 

"It  is  red  as  a  ruby!" 

So  she  picked  it  up, 

And  carried  it  into  the  house, 

And  ran  a  ribbon  through  it, 

And  hung  it  on  the  looking-glass  in  her  bedroom. 

There  it  hung  for  many  days, 

Banging  back  and  forth  as  the  wind  blew  it. 


PICTURES    OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  215 

LITTLE  IVORY  FIGURES  PULLED  WITH 
STRING 

Is  it  the  tinkling  of  mandolins  which  disturbs  you  ? 
Or  the  dropping  of  bitter-orange  petals  among  the 

coffee-cups  ? 
Or  the  slow  creeping  of  the  moonlight  between  the 

olive-trees  ? 

Drop  !  drop  I  the  rain 

Upon  the  thin  plates  of  my  heart. 

String  your  blood  to  chord  with  this  music, 

Stir  your  heels  upon  the  cobbles  to  the  rhythm  of  a 

dance-tune. 

They  have  slim  thighs  and  arms  of  silver ; 
The  moon  washes  away  their  garments ; 
They  make  a  pattern  of  fleeing  feet  in  the   branch 

shadows, 


216  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

And  the  green  grapes  knotted  about  them 
Burst  as  they  press  against  one  another. 

The  rain  knocks  upon  the  plates  of  my  heart. 
They  are  crumpled  with  its  beating. 

Would  you  drink  only  from  your  brains,  Old  Man  ? 

See,  the  moonlight  has  reached  your  knees, 

It  falls  upon  your  head  in  an  accolade  of  silver. 

Rise  up  on  the  music, 

Fling  against  the  moon-drifts  in  a  whorl  of  young 

light  bodies : 
Leaping  grape-clusters, 
Vine  leaves  tearing  from  a  grey  wall. 
You  shall  run,  laughing,  in  a  braid  of  women, 
And  weave  flowers  with  the  frosty  spines  of  thorns. 
Why  do  you  gaze  into  your  glass, 
And  jar  the  spoons  with  your  finger- tapping  ? 

The  rain  is  rigid  on  the  plates  of  my  heart. 
The  murmur  of  it  is  loud  —  loud. 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  217 

ON  THE  MANTELPIECE 

A  THOUSAND  years  went  to  her  making, 

A  thousand  years  of  experiments  in  pastes  and  glazes. 

But  now  she  stands 

In  all  the  glory  of  the  finest  porcelain  and  the  most 

delicate  paint, 

A  Dresden  china  shepherdess, 
Flaunted  before  a  tall  mirror 
On  a  high  mantelpiece. 

"Beautiful  shepherdess, 

I  love  the  little  pink  rosettes  on  your  shoes, 

The  angle  of  your  hat  sets  my  heart  a-singing. 

Drop  me  the  purple  rose  you  carry  in  your  hand 

That  I  may  cherish  it, 

And  that,  at  my  death, 

Which  I  feel  is  not  far  off, 

It  may  lie  upon  my  bier.'* 


218  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

So  the  shepherdess  threw  the  purple  rose  over   the 

mantelpiece, 
But  it  splintered  in  fragments  on  the  hearth. 

Then  from  below  there  came  a  sound  of  weeping, 

And  the  shepherdess  beat  her  hands 

And  cried : 

"My  purple  rose  is  broken, 

It  was  the  flower  of  my  heart." 

And  she  jumped  off  the  mantelpiece 

And  was  instantly  shattered  into  seven  hundred  and 

twenty  pieces. 

But  the  little  brown  cricket  who  sang  so  sweetly 
Scuttled  away  into  a  crevice  of  the  marble 
And  went  on  warming  his  toes  and  chirping. 


AS  TOWARD  WAR 


MISERICORDIA 

HE  earned  his  bread  by  making  wooden  soldiers, 

With  beautiful  golden  instruments, 

Riding  dapple-grey  horses. 

But  when  he  heard  the  fanfare  of  trumpets 

And  the  long  rattle  of  drums 

As  the  army  marched  out  of  the  city, 

He  took  all  his  soldiers 

And  burned  them  in  the  grate ; 

And  that  night  he  fashioned  a  ballet-dancer 

Out  of  tinted  tissue-paper, 

And  the  next  day  he  started  to  carve  a  Pieta 

On  the  steel  hilt 

Of  a  cavalry  sword. 


222  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

DREAMS  IN  WAR  TIME 

I 

I  WANDERED  through  a  house  of  many  rooms.  > 

It  grew  darker  and  darker, 

Until,  at  last,  I  could  only  find  my  way 

By  passing  my  fingers  along  the  wall. 

Suddenly  my  hand  shot  through  an  open  window,  ! 

And  the  thorn  of  a  rose  I  could  not  see 

Pricked  it  so  sharply 

That  I  cried  aloud. 

II 

I  dug  a  grave  under  an  oak-tree. 

With  infinite  care,  I  stamped  my  spade 

Into  the  heavy  grass. 

The  sod  sucked  it, 

And  I  drew  it  out  with  effort, 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  223 

Watching  the  steel  run  liquid  in  the  moonlight 

As  it  came  clear. 

I  stooped,  and  dug,  and  never  turned, 

For  behind  me, 

On  the  dried  leaves, 

My  own  face  lay  like  a  white  pebble, 

Waiting. 

m 

I  gambled  with  a  silver  money. 

The  dried  seed-vessels  of  "honesty" 

Were  stacked  in  front  of  me. 

Dry,  white  years  slipping  through  my  fingers 

One  by  one. 

One  by  one,  gathered  by  the  Croupier. 

"Faites  vos  jeux,  Messieurs." 

I  staked  on  the  red, 

And  the  black  won. 

Dry  years, 


224  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Dead  years ; 

But  I  had  a  system, 

I  always  staked  on  the  red. 

IV 

I  painted  the  leaves  of  bushes  red 

And  shouted:  "Fire!    Fire!" 

But  the  neighbors  only  laughed. 

"We  cannot  warm  our  hands  at  them,"  they  said. 

Then  they  cut  down  my  bushes, 

And  made  a  bonfire, 

And  danced  about  it. 

But  I  covered  my  face  and  wept, 

For  ashes  are  not  beautiful 

Even  hi  the  dawn. 

V 

I  followed  a  procession  of  singing  girls 
Who  danced  to  the  glitter  of  tambourines. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  225 

Where  the  street  turned  at  a  lighted  corner, 
I  caught  the  purple  dress  of  one  of  the  dancers, 
But,  as  I  grasped  it,  it  tore, 
And  the  purple  dye  ran  from  it 
Like  blood 
Upon  the  ground. 

VI 

I  wished  to  post  a  letter, 

But  although  I  paid  much, 

Still  the  letter  was  overweight. 

"  What  is  in  this  package  ?"  said  the  clerk, 

"  It  is  very  heavy." 

"Yes,"  I  said, 

"And  yet  it  is  only  a  dried  fruit." 

vn 

I  had  made  a  kite, 

On  it  I  had  pasted  golden  stars 


226  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

And  white  torches, 

And  the  tail  was  spotted  scarlet  like  a  tiger-lily, 

And  very  long. 

I  flew  my  kite, 

And  my  soul  was  contented 

Watching  it  flash  against  the  concave  of  the  sky, 

My  friends  pointed  at  the  clouds ; 

They  begged  me  to  take  hi  my  kite. 

But  I  was  happy 

Seeing  the  mirror  shock  of  it 

Against  the  black  clouds. 

Then  the  lightning  came 

And  struck  the  kite. 

It  puffed  —  blazed  —  fell. 

But  still  I  walked  on, 

In  the  drowning  rain, 

Slowly  winding  up  the  string. 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING  WORLD  227 

SPECTACLES 

He  was  a  landscape  architect. 

All  day  he  planned  Dutch  gardens :  rectangular, 
squared  with  tulips ;  Italian  gardens :  dark  with 
myrtle,  thick  with  running  water;  English  gar 
dens  :  prim,  box-edged,  espaliered  fruit  trees  flick 
ering  on  walls,  borders  of  snap-dragons,  pansies, 
marjoram,  rue. 

On  Saturday  afternoons,  he  did  not  walk  into  the 
country.  He  paid  a  quarter  and  went  to  a  cinema 
show,  and  gazed  —  gazed  —  at  marching  soldiers, 
at  guns  firing  and  recoiling,  at  waste  grounds 
strewn  with  mutilated  dead.  When  he  took  off 
his  glasses,  there  was  moisture  upon  them,  and  his 
eyes  hurt.  He  could  not  see  to  use  a  periscope, 
they  said,  yet  he  could  draw  gardens. 


228  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

His  firm  dismissed  him  for  designing  a  military  garden  : 
forts,  and  redoubts,  and  salients,  in  hemlock  and 
yew,  and  a  puzzle  of  ditches,  damp,  deep,  floored 
with  forget-me-nots.  It  was  a  wonderful  thing, 
but  quite  mad,  of  course. 

When  they  took  his  body  from  the  river,  the  eyes 
were  wide  open,  and  the  lids  were  so  stiffened  that 
they  buried  him  without  closing  them. 


PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  229 

IN  THE  STADIUM 

MARSHAL  JOFFRE  REVIEWING  THE  HARVARD 
REGIMENT,  MAY  12,  1917 

A  LITTLE  old  man 

Huddled  up  in  a  corner  of  a  carriage, 

Rapidly  driven  in  front  of  throngs  of  people 

With  his  hand  held  to  a  perpetual  salute. 

The  people  cheer, 

But  he  has  heard  so  much  cheering. 

On  his  breast  is  a  row  of  decorations. 

He  feels  his  body  recoil  before  attacks  of  pain. 

They  are  all  like  this : 

Napoleon, 

Hannibal, 

Great  Caesar  even, 

But  that  he  died  out  of  time. 


230  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Sick  old  men, 

Driving  rapidly  before  a  concourse  of  people, 

Gay  with  decorations, 

Crumpled  with  pain. 

The  drum-major  lifts  his  silver-headed  stick, 

And  the  silver  trumpets  and  tubas, 

The  great  round  drums, 

Each  with  an  H  on  them, 

Crash  out  martial  music. 

Heavily  rhythmed  march  music 

For  the  stepping  of  a  regiment. 

Slant  lines  of  rifles, 
A  twinkle  of  stepping, 
The  regiment  comes. 
The  young  regiment, 
Boys  in  khaki 
With  slanted  rifles. 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD      231 

The  young  bodies  of  boys 
Bulwarked  in  front  of  us. 
The  white  bodies  of  young  men 
Heaped  like  sandbags 
Against  the  German  guns. 

This  is  war : 

Boys  flung  into  a  breach 

Like  shovelled  earth ; 

And  old  men, 

Broken, 

Driving  rapidly  before  crowds  of  people 

In  a  glitter  of  silly  decorations. 

Behind  the  boys 

And  the  old  men, 

Life  weeps, 

And  shreds  her  garments 

To  the  blowing  winds. 


232  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

AFTER    WRITING    "THE    BRONZE 
HORSES" 

I  AM  so  tired. 

I  have  run  across  the  ages  with  spiritless  feet, 

I  have   tracked   man   where   he   falls   splintered   in 

defeat, 
I  have  watched  him  shoot  up  like  green  sprouts  at 

dawning, 
I  have  seen  him  blossom,  and  fruit,  and  offer  himself, 

fawning, 

On  golden  platters  to  kings. 
I  have  seen  him  reel  with  drunk  blood, 
I  have  followed  him  in  flood 
Sweep  over  his  other  selves. 
I  have  written  things 
Which  sucked  the  breath 
Out  of  my  lungs,  and  hung 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  233 

My  heart  up  in  a  frozen  death. 

I  have  picked  desires 

Out  of  purple  fires 

And  set  them  on  the  shelves 

Of  my  mind, 

Nonchalantly, 

As  though  my  kind 

Were  unlike  these. 

But  while  I  did  this,  my  bowels  contracted  in  twists 

of  fear. 

I  felt  myself  squeeze 
Myself  dry, 

And  wished  that  I  could  shrivel  before  Destiny 
Could  snatch  me  back  into  the  vortex  of  Yesterday. 
Wheels  and  wheels  — 
And  only  your  hand  is  firm. 
The  very  paths  of  my  garden  squirm 
Like  snakes  between  the  brittle  flowers, 
And  the  sunrise  gun  cuts  off  the  hours 


234  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING    WORLD 

Of  this  day  and  the  next. 

The  long,  dusty  volumes  are  the  first  lines  of  a  text. 

Oh,  Beloved,  must  we  read  ? 

Must  you  and  I,  alone  in  the  midst  of  trees, 

See  their  green  alleys  printing  with  the  screed 

Which  counts  these  new  men,  these 

Terrible  resurrections  of  old  wars. 

I  wish  I  had  not  seen  so  much : 

The  roses  that  you  wear  are  bloody  scars, 

And  you  the  moon  above  a  battle-field ; 

So  all  my  thoughts  are  grown  to  such. 

A  body  peeled 

Down  to  a  skeleton, 

A  grinning  jaw-bone  in  a  bed  of  mignonette. 

What  good  is  it  to  say  "Not  yet." 

I  tell  you  I  am  tired 

And  afraid. 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  235 


THE  FORT 

THE  disappearing  guns 

Are  hidden  in  their  concrete  emplacements, 

But,  above  them, 

Meadow  grasses  fall  and  recover, 

Bend  and  stiffen, 

Go  dark,  burn  light, 

In  the  play  of  a  gusty  wind. 

A  black-and-orange  butterfly 

Flits  about  among  the  butter-and-egg  flowers, 

And  the  sea  stands  up, 

Tall  in  perspective, 

With  full-spread  schooners 

Sprinkled  upon  it 

As  roses  are  powdered 

Over  a  ribbon  of  moire  blue. 


236  PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

The  disappearing  guns  are  black 

In  grey  concrete  emplacements 

With  here  and  there  a  touch  of  red  rust. 

Wind  cuts  through  the  grasses, 

Rasps  upon  them, 

Draws  a  bow  note  out  along  themc 

Swish !  —  Oh-h-h ! 

And  the  low  waves 

Crash  soft  constant  cymbals 

On  the  shingle  beach 

At  the  foot  of  the  cliff. 

Good  Gracious ! 

A  seal ! 

After  how  many  years  ? 

He  turns  his  head  to  look  at  us, 

He  lolls  on  his  rock  contented  and  hot  with  sun» 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  237 

The  disappearing  guns  would  shoot  over  him 

If  they  were  to  fire. 

Is  he  held  in  the  harbour 

By  the  submarine  nets,  I  wonder  ? 

"You  turn  the  crank  so. 

Do  you  see  her  move  ? 

If  you  stand  here,  you  can  see  the  springs  for  the 

recoil." 

Perhaps  I  can, 

But  I  cannot  see  the  orange  butterfly, 
Nor  the  seal, 
Nor  the  little  ships 
Drawn  across  the  tall,  streaked  sea. 
And  all  I  can  hear 
Is  the  jingle  of  a  piano 
In  the  men's  quarters 
Playing  a  comic  opera  tune. 


PICTUBES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Is  it  possible  that,  at  night, 

The  little  flitter-bats 

Hang  under  the  lever-wheels  of  the  disappearing  guns 

In  their  low  emplacements 

To  escape  from  the  glare 

Of  the  search-lights, 

Shooting  over  the  grasses 

To  the  sea? 


PICTURES   OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

CAMOUFLAGED  TROOP-SHIP. 

Boston  Harbour 

UPRIGHTNESS, 

Masts,  one  behind  another, 

Syncopated  beyond  and  between  one  another, 

Clouding  together, 

Becoming  confused. 

A  mist  of  grey,  blurring  stems 

Platformed  upon  horizontal  thicknesses. 

Decks, 

Bows  and  sterns  escaping  fore  and  aft, 

A  long  line  of  flatness 

Darker  than  the  fog  of  masts, 

More  solid, 

Monotonous  grey. 

Dull  smokestacks 

Plotting  lustreless  clouds. 


240  PICTURES  OP  THE   FLOATING  WORLD 

An  ebb-tide 

Slowly  sucking  the  refuse  of  a  harbour 

Seaward. 

The  ferry  turns ; 

And  there, 

On  the  starboard  quarter, 

Thrust  out  from  the  vapour-wall  of  ships  j 

Colour. 

Against  the  perpendicular : 

Obliqueness. 

In  front  of  the  horizontal : 

A  crenelated  edge. 

A  vessel,  grooved  and  conical, 

Shell-shaped,  flower-flowing, 

Gothic,  bizarre,  and  unrelated. 

Black  spirals  over  cream-colour 

Broken  at  a  half-way  point. 

A  slab  of  black  amidships. 


PICTURES  OF  THE   FLOATING   WORLD  2<U 

At  the  stern, 

Lines : 

Rising  from  the  water, 

Curled  round  and  over, 

Whorled,  scattered, 

Drawn  upon  one  another. 

Snakes  starting  from  a  still  ocean, 

Writhing  over  cream-colour, 

Crashed  upon  and  cut  down 

By  a  flat,  impinging  horizon. 

The  sea  is  grey  and  low, 

But  the  vessel  is  high  with  upthrusting  lines  : 

Hair  lines  incessantly  moving, 

Broad  bands  of  black  turning  evenly  over  emptiness, 

Intorting  upon  their  circuits, 

Teasing  the  eye  with  indefinite  motion, 

Coming  from  nothing, 

Ending  without  cessation. 


242  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

Drowned  hair  drifting  against  mother-of-pearl ; 

Kelp-aprons 

Shredded  upon  a  yellow  beach ; 

Black  spray 

Salted  over  cream-grey  wave-tops.  ^ 

You  hollow  into  rising  water, 

You  double-turn  under  the  dripped  edges  of  clouds, 

You  move  in  a  hundred  directions, 

And  keep  to  a  course  the  eye  cannot  see. 

Your  terrible  lines 

Are  swift  as  the  plunge  of  a  kingfisher ; 

They  vanish  as  one  traces  them, 

They  are  constantly  vanishing, 

And  yet  you  swing  at  anchor  in  the  grey  harbour 

Waiting  for  your  quota  of  troops. 

Men  will  sail  in  you, 

Netted  in  whirling  paint,    i 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING   WORLD  243 

Held  like  brittle  eggs 
In  an  osier  basket.  , 
They  will  sail, 

Over  black-skinned  water,    ^ 

Into  a  distance  of  cream-colour  and  vague  shadow- 
shotted  blue. 

The  ferry  whistle  blows  for  the  landing. 

Start  the  engine 

That  we  may  not  block 

The  string  of  waiting  carts. 


244  PICTURES   OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 

SEPTEMBER.   1918 

THIS  afternoon  was  the  colour  of  water  falling  through 

sunlight ; 

The  trees  glittered  with  the  tumbling  of  leaves ; 
The  sidewalks  shone  like  alleys  of  dropped  maple 

leaves, 
And  the  houses  ran  along  them  laughing  out  of  square, 

open  windows. 
Under  a  tree  in  the  park, 
Two  little  boys,  lying  flat  on  their  faces, 
Were  carefully  gathering  red  berries 
To  put  in  a  pasteboard  box. 

Some  day  there  will  be  no  war, 

Then  I  shall  take  out  this  afternoon 

And  turn  it  in  my  fingers, 

And  remark  the  sweet  taste  of  it  upon  my  palate, 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  245 

And  note  the  crisp  variety  of  its  flights  of  leaves. 

To-day  I  can  only  gather  it 

And  put  it  into  my  lunch-box, 

For  I  have  time  for  nothing 

But  the  endeavour  to  balance  myself 

Upon  a  broken  world. 


246  PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE    THE  PARADE 

April  25, 1919 

BIRDS  are  calling  through  the  rain, 

Glass  bells  dropping  across  the  patter  of  falling  rain. 

The  garden  soaks,  and  breathes,  and  lifts  up  the 

spear-green  leaves  of  tulips 
And  the  long,  golden  mouths  of  daffodils 
To  the  downpour, 
And  the  high  blossoms  of  forsythia 
Tremble  vaguely,  and  bend  to  let  the  rain  run  off  them 
And  spill  over  the  little  red  peony  fronds 
Uncurling  at  their  feet. 
It  is  wet,  and  cool,  and  pleasant. 
Why  should  words  rattle  upon  this  quietness  ? 
"Adders  writhe  from  the  sunken  eyes 
Of  statues,  in  Persepolis."  „ 


PICTURES  OF  THE  FLOATING  WORLD  247 

Clashes  of  bells  bursting  in  a  grey  sky, 

And  a  clock  striking  jubilees  of  brass  hours,  one  after 

another. 
Gas-jets  flicker,  and  spin  sudden  lights  across  the 

battle-flags  draped  to  the  pillars. 
The  church  sighs  in  the  evening  rain, 
Kneeling  beneath  the  dim  clouds  in  a  stillness  of 

adoration. 

Beauty  of  stone,  of  glass,  of  memories, 
Worshipful  beauty  spotted  by  the  snarl  of  words  — 
"Adders  writhe  from  the  sunken  eyes 
Of  statues,  in  Persepolis." 

They  have  put  up  stands, 

Flimsy  wooden  stands  to  crush  out  the  little  green 

life  of  the  grass. 

To-morrow  the  crowds  will  cheer, 
And  the  streets  will  shine  with  flags  and  gilding. 


248  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

The  people  will  shout  themselves  hoarse 

When  the  green  helmets  and  the  white  bayonets 

Sweep  along  the  streets. 

Only  the  little  grass-blades  will  cry  and  languish, 

Weeping  :  "  We  are  the  cousins  of  the  grasses  of  France, 

The  kind  grasses  who  cover  the  graves  of  those  you 

have  forgotten." 

Then  they  will  hiss  under  the  cruel  stands, 
And  the  words  will  run,  and  glare,  and  brighten : 
"Adders  writhe  from  the  sunken  eyes 
Of  statues,  in  Persepolis." 

Rain  on  a  roofless  city, 

Rain  over  broken  walls  and  towers  scattered  to  a 

ring  of  ruins, 
Pale  splendours  of  hard  stone  melted  to  the  purple 

bloom  of  orchises, 
And  poppies  thrust  between  the  basalt  paving-blocks 

of  roads  leading  to  a  waste  of  blue-tongued 

thistles. 


PICTURES   OF    THE   FLOATING   WORLD  249 

Where  did  I  see  this  ? 

Not  in  the  leafless  branches  of  the  ash-tree, 

Not  in  the  glitter  of  my  wet  window-sill, 

Not  in  the  smooth  garden  filling  itself  with  good  rain. 

There  are  fireworks  to-night, 

The  first  for  two  years. 

And  listen  to  the  rain ! 

Listen  —  listen  — 

Prayers,  and  flowers,  and  a  booming  of  guns.  ! 

It  blurs  — 

Do  I  hear  anything  ? 

What  are  you  reading  ? 

"Adders  writhe  from  the  sunken  eyes 
Of  statues,  in  Persepolis.". 


AS  TOWARD  IMMORTALITY 


ON  A  CERTAIN  CRITIC 

WELL,  John  Keats, 

I  know  how  you  felt  when  you  swung  out  of  the  inn 

And  started  up  Box  Hill  after  the  moon. 

Lord !     How  she  twinkled  in  and  out  of  the  box 

bushes 

Where  they  arched  over  the  path. 
How  she  peeked  at  you  and  tempted  you, 
And  how  you  longed  for  the  "naked  waist"  of  her 
You  had  put  into  your  second  canto. 
You  felt  her  silver  running  all  over  you, 
And  the  shine  of  her  flashed  in  your  eyes 
So  that  you  stumbled  over  roots  and  things. 
Ah !    How  beautiful !     How  beautiful ! 
Lying  out  on  the  open  hill 
With  her  white  radiance  touching  you 


254  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

Lightly, 

Flecking  over  you. 

"My  Lady  of  the  Moon, 

I  flow  out  to  your  whiteness, 

Brightness. 

My  hands  cup  themselves 

About  your  disk  of  pearl  and  fire ; 

Lie  upon  my  face, 

Burn  me  with  the  cold  of  your  hot  white  flamea 

Diana, 

High,  distant  Goddess, 

I  kiss  the  needles  of  this  furze  bush 

Because  your  feet  have  trodden  it. 

Moon! 

Moon! 

I  am  prone  before  you. 

Pity  me, 

And  drench  me  in  loveliness. 

I  have  written  you  a  poem 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  255 

I  have  made  a  girdle  for  you  of  words ; 
Like  a  shawl  my  words  will  cover  you, 
So  that  men  may  read  of  you  and  not  be  burnt  as  I 

have  been. 

Sere  my  heart  until  it  is  a  crinkled  leaf, 
I  have  held  you  in  it  for  a  moment, 
And  exchanged  my  love  with  yours, 
On  a  high  hill  at  midnight. 
Was  that  your  tear  or  mine,  Bright  Moon  ? 
It  was  round  and  full  of  moonlight. 
Don't  go ! 

My  God !    Don't  go ! 
You  escape  from  me, 
You  slide  through  my  hands.   N 
Great  Immortal  Goddess, 
Dearly  Beloved, 
Don't  leave  me. 

My  hands  clutch  at  moonbeams, 
And  catch  each  other. 


256  PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD 

My  Dear !     My  Dear ! 

My  beautiful  far-shining  lady ! 

Oh!     God! 

I  am  tortured  with  this  anguish  of  unbearable  beauty." 

Then  you  stumbled  down  the  hill,  John  Keats, 

Perhaps  you  fell  once  or  twice ; 

It  is  a  rough  path, 

And  you  weren't  thinking  of  that. 

Then  you  wrote, 

By  a  wavering  candle, 

And  the  moon  frosted  your  window  till  it  looked  like 

a  sheet  of  blue  ice. 

And  as  you  tumbled  into  bed,  you  said : 
"It's  a  piece  of  luck  I  thought  of  coming  out  to  Box 

Hill." 

Now  comes  a  sprig  little  gentleman, 
And  turns  over  your  manuscript  with  his  mincing 
fingers, 


PICTURES   OF   THE   FLOATING   WORLD  257 

And  tabulates  places  and  dates. 

He  says  your  moon  was  a  copy-book  maxim, 

And  talks  about  the  spirit  of  solitude, 

And  the  salvation  of  genius  through  the  social  order. 

I  wish  you  were  here  to  damn  him 

With  a  good,  round,  agreeable  oath,  John  Keats, 

But  just  snap  your  fingers, 

You  and  the  moon  will  still  love, 

When  he  and  his  papers  have  slithered  away 

•*K 

In  the  bodies  of  innumerable  worms. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

202  Main  Library 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

•A 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling     642-3405. 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

ocTi4;g 

12 

Alii 

MY  1  2  199; 

AUTO  DiSC  CIRC  W 

Y  02'93 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


PI 


>a 


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U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


